Bullets and Bourbon
by i-must-go-first
Summary: They're not exactly friends. They're not exactly enemies. Defining their relationship might, she worries, make it mean something. Maybe that's what really keeps her awake at night.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The current T rating is for language. Raydor has an affinity for profanity. It will become an M later, **not** for language (I do try to give the people, at least some of them, what they want), but I don't want to be tarred and feathered for false advertising. Also, this is my first proper foray into writing for this fandom. Feedback will be fawned over accordingly._

**Chapter One: Days Like This**

1.

Sharon Raydor was having a bad day – like, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, I-wish-the-alarm-had-never-gone-off, I'd-rather-be-having-a-root-canal-without-benefit-of-anaesthetic, epically shitty day. And if she had to spend one more single solitary minute of it staring at Commander Russell Taylor's hideous tangerine shirt and listening to his oily tones ooze all over the crowd of rabid journalists assembled outside police headquarters, she was liable to find herself right smack in the middle of her very own, personal O.I.S. investigation.

"Obviously, in a situation such as this one the integrity of the entire Los Angeles Police Department is of paramount importance," Taylor drawled, and the captain's trigger finger itched. Raydor was a good shot. A really damn good shot. And while she didn't have her beanbag gun handy, she did have her trusty Glock.

"I've heard enough," she muttered under her breath to Sergeant Elliott. "We're wasting valuable time, and we only have –" she consulted her watch – "sixty-three hours. Take Havermeyer and see if you can get Kegan's partner to understand that he's not doing anyone any good by stonewalling us."

With that Raydor pivoted on one spiked heel and strode back into the building, leaving a modicum of the noise and chaos behind as she stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. Her own thoughts still whirled at lightning speed as she mentally made an itemized list of everything that had to happen before she could send her squad home tonight. Officer Kegan had lawyered up, the poor bastard, and Raydor knew she wouldn't be able to question him properly until the next day (but no way in hell would she be put off a moment longer than that); Sergeant Reyes was still at the crime scene, overseeing the last of the processing; and now that she'd sicced Elliott and Lieutenant Havermeyer on Scott Collins, Kegan's uncooperative partner, that left the captain herself to –

Answer the incoming call from Acting Chief Will Pope._ Shit_. For once she cursed the crystal clear cell reception in the elevator of the still-newish building. "Chief," she murmured with more than usual caution.

"Captain Raydor! Why the hell is Commander Taylor out there talking to the media?"

Sharon gaped at her phone, flabbergasted._ Because you_ forced_ me to let him?_ she retorted internally, but bit her tongue. "The commander is well aware that he must say absolutely nothing that could be construed as an admission of culpability on the part of the department," she replied instead, her words as precise and measured as ever.

She could practically hear Pope roll his eyes. "He's not apologizing, but he still sounds like a jackass. Get out there and shut him up. Now, Captain."

Raydor counted to three. "With all due respect, chief, I think you're best equipped to deal with that… situation. And if a statement from the chief of police can't quiet that pack of bloggers and hacks –"

"Point taken, Captain," Pope cut in abruptly, and hung up without ceremony. Raydor allowed herself a small sigh.

"Rough day?"

To her mortification, Sharon was so startled by the voice – how the hell had she failed to notice another person on the elevator? – that she jumped. Recovering herself, she planted her hands on her hips and scowled. Andy Flynn just gazed back at her with that "Come on, show me whatcha got" expression that she normally found so infuriating, but Raydor was too exhausted to work up a good head of steam. Instead she replied, "Oh, you could say that, Lieutenant."

"It's hell when kids are involved." Sharon's eyes widened fractionally behind her glasses. What was this – sympathy from Andy Flynn? "And it's shapin' up to be a real shit storm, especially with Taylor out there. I gotta say, I'm just glad it's not –"

He stopped suddenly, perhaps realizing for once that he didn't "gotta say" the words on the tip of his tongue. Captain Raydor's lips twitched in a brief, humorless smile. "It's all right, Andy," she said as the elevator doors whooshed open and she stepped out. "I'm glad it's not a Major Crimes case too."

What it _was_ was an unmitigated disaster, and it was Sharon Raydor's job to – well, to mitigate it. But nothing – no degree of transparency, no knowledge of the State of California's legal codes, no amount of hand-holding or carefully chosen words – was going to change the fact that a four-year-old girl had been shot dead this morning and the bullet had been fired by an officer of the LAPD. Some days Sharon just fucking hated her job. Unfortunately those were usually the days that drove home just how vital that job was.

She got all the way to the tenth floor before she remembered that she'd been on her way to get the M.E.'s report when she'd been distracted by Pope. Repressing a groan, she jabbed the door close button. She had a report to collect. And a body to view.

It would either be a miracle or a travesty if the girl's mother didn't sue the department and the city, never mind Jack Kegan as an individual; Raydor wasn't sure which yet. She was only sure that the sheet-covered form on the stainless-steel table was pathetically, pitifully small and still.

"Are you sure you want to see?" Dr. Morales asked. It was the first time Raydor had ever seen him looking pale and sickened by his duties.

"I'm sure I don't," she replied evenly, and turned the sheet back to reveal what was left of blue-veined china doll features and blonde curls matted with blood. No one wanted to see anything like this, ever. But Raydor had to. This was why she was here, doing what she did, day after day, year after year. Not for rank. Not because she was unusually fastidious or had a bureaucratic soul. No: for Helena Peterson. And for Officer Jack Kegan.

"Tell me," she said bleakly, "what I need to know. Does the autopsy help or hurt Officer Kegan?"

Morales shrugged. "The trajectory of the bullet shows that she was moving when she was hit… if that matters."

Raydor nodded. "That's something, at least," she murmured, because this confirmed Kegan's version of events, although it did little to assist in the painful task of assigning blame. "Thank you, doctor."

Sharon left the young man looking as if he was contemplating a career change and headed for the parking garage. She had a witness to interview. As she walked, her heels tapping steadily, her thoughts clicked in time, mentally pounding out the preliminary report she would type later.

_At 7:22 a.m. on Wednesday, October 12__th__, officers were summoned to the 700-block of Westbourne Grove Road, where a Caucasian male armed with a pistol had abducted a four-year-old girl, Helena Peterson, from the Play and Learn Daycare Center. Officers Johnathan Kegan and Charles Kress were the first to respond, and found the suspect holding the girl at gunpoint in the parking lot. Kegan and Kress blocked the suspect's access to his vehicle, a 2007 Dodge Ram, with their squad car. At 7:31, Rachel Michaels, the mother of the girl, arrived on the scene, having been called by daycare staff. She ran toward the assailant, who threatened her with the pistol. Officer Kress restrained Ms. Michaels, who identified the gunman as her ex-husband, Isaiah Peterson. Officer Kegan repeatedly ordered Mr. Peterson to drop his weapon. At approximately 7:39, Mr. Peterson briefly released his grip on Helena to point his gun at Officer Kress. Officer Kegan saw the girl running, apparently toward her mother, at which point he discharged one round, aiming for Mr. Peterson's thigh. According to Officer Kegan's account, when he fired the shot he was unaware that Helena had run back toward her father. Instead of its intended target, the bullet struck Helena Peterson, shattering her skull and killing her instantly._

At least, Sharon thought as she slid behind the steering wheel of her department car, the child hadn't suffered. But somehow she didn't think her witness – Rachel Michaels – would agree.

Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.

2.

Sharon immediately heard the tentative footsteps in the outer office, since at nearly 10:00 at night there was no steady drone of activity to muffle the sound, but couldn't be bothered to lift her head and investigate their source. She had just emailed a preliminary report to Pope, having sent her team home an hour ago, and she wasn't at all sure she'd care even if the building were on fire. She needed to go home. She _wanted_ to go home. But so much less effort was required to sprawl here lethargically in her ergonomic chair with her head tipped back at an angle that would certainly have her neck aching tomorrow. Moving would require energy, and the captain didn't have any to spare at the moment.

The footsteps stopped at her open door. "Captain?"

Though the voice was unusually soft, it was still instantly recognizable. Sharon opened her eyes but didn't move another muscle. "Chief."

"Now, I didn't come to disturb you," Chief Johnson said hastily, stepping forward as she rummaged in the depths of that ubiquitous, hideous black tote. Oh, delightful – the other woman wanted to have a _conversation_, Sharon thought scathingly, and lifted her head. Something cracked in protest.

Brenda winced. "I just – I thought you might still be here, workin' late. Lieutenant Flynn said he saw you earlier and that you looked tired, so I brought you something," she finished rather lamely. Sharon stared at the foil-wrapped lump the blonde cradled in her palm, and suddenly she had the oddest, most unexpected, most ridiculous urge to cry. So she chuckled.

The blonde flushed. "I was just tryin' to be nice," she huffed defensively, sounding about as mature as a fifth-grader on the playground, and Raydor chuckled again, but stood quickly and reached for the proffered treat when the chief moved to withdraw it.

"You _are_ being nice," Sharon answered with unwonted gentleness. "And I appreciate the effort, chief. I do. It's just that I don't think chocolate does for me what it does for you."

"Well, it can't hurt, can it?" Brenda reasoned, surveying the captain. She wasn't unkempt – not Sharon Raydor – but she was disheveled. Her feet were bare, her skirt wrinkled, her blazer tossed haphazardly over the back of her swivel chair, and her hair – that profusion of long, dark hair was tousled, as if she'd been running her fingers through it repeatedly. What remained of her eyeliner was slightly smudged, and without her glasses her eyes were surprisingly wide and slightly myopic, unfocused. It was a little disconcerting, like the time when Brenda Leigh was little and she and her mama had seen the anchor from the local news at the grocery store buying pimento cheese and a box of Kotex for his wife. Sharon Raydor got tired. Sharon Raydor's hair tangled and her makeup smudged. Sharon Raydor was human. Brenda had long moved past the phase of thinking the captain was a soulless robot with a handbook of rules and regs where her heart belonged, but she'd still never seen her looking less than perfectly polished.

"You're staring," the other woman pointed out bluntly. "I look awful."

It was so far from what the chief had been thinking that she felt herself blush as she quickly argued, "You don't! You just look, y'know, normal." Sharon laughed again and Brenda thought how ironic it was that she was hearing that sound for the first time today of all days. "If it's not chocolate, what does do it for you, Captain?"

Brenda belatedly realized the question could be a loaded one, but Sharon only rubbed her eyes before replacing her glasses. "My vices are a bit more adult, I suppose. I could do with a stiff drink. Or five."

"So let's go get one." Brenda didn't know what she was going to say before the words popped out of her mouth, so the captain wasn't the only one who looked surprised, slightly taken aback.

"Oh, ah – No. I'm done here for now, so I'm heading home. But thank you, Chief." Sharon looked down, straightening papers on her desk, and the deputy chief knew she should let it go, because although she no longer disliked Raydor, they weren't friends, not the kind of friends who went for drinks after a rough day, and if Sharon had accepted her invitation the evening would've been stilted at best, torturous at worst.

But Brenda was stubborn, and Raydor had said no, which was reason enough to convince her to say yes. Brenda planted her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and watched Sharon toe on her shoes. "It's not that late. And what are you going to do when you get home anyway? One drink." She watched the other woman hesitate, and then Brenda Leigh played her trump card. "Come on, _Sharon_. What'll it hurt?"

The captain's dark eyebrows arched. She was insane. She was losing her mind if she was even contemplating spending time voluntarily with Brenda Leigh Johnson, much less considering following through. But then she probably couldn't be held accountable for any decisions she made after a day like today, and anyway, she was… curious. Mildly curious.

She shrugged and scooped up her small purse. "What could it hurt? I don't know. But I guess we'll find out – _Brenda_."

3.

Sharon had reluctantly agreed to let Brenda drive, reasoning that even the deputy chief couldn't get lost when she had Sharon in the passenger seat giving directions. They made it without incident to a strip of bars and clubs in what looked like the sort of neighborhood Brenda only visited to see crime scenes, but when she cast Raydor an apprehensive look, the other woman retaliated with that unbearable little smirk, so Brenda clinched her jaw and found a place to park in a narrow alleyway. "I swear, Captain, if this car gets stolen –"

"If this car gets stolen, you'll report it and Pope will get you a new one," Raydor interrupted easily. "You don't own it anyway."

Confronted with such irrefutable logic, Brenda swung out of the car onto the uneven pavement. Raydor mirrored her movements on the other side of the car.

And that's when Sharon suddenly, spectacularly had what Brenda privately referred to as her little come-apart.

One second the brunette was stretching to her full height plus the usual three inches; in the next she had disappeared completely from Brenda's view, with only her violent ejaculation of "Oh, God _damn_ it!" to indicate her whereabouts. Cringing, Brenda ducked around the front of the car to see Sharon scrambling up from a heap.

"Oh, fuck," the older woman swore. "Oh, just –_ fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

With each expletive her volume rose, making the precision of her carefully articulated hard k's even more startling and obscene. Brenda grabbed her arm. "Captain – Sharon! What is it? Where are you hurt?" Although the captain was a bit older than the chief, Brenda doubted the woman was quite to the bone-breaking stage, but still, accidents happened.

Raydor shook her off, disgusted. "Shit. I'm not fucking _hurt_," she snapped, and the chief marveled at the mouth the buttoned-up, elegant captain had on her. "It's my goddamn shoe."

"I wish you wouldn't say that," Brenda muttered faintly, cringing again and thinking of her mama's most disapproving look (Thou shalt_ not_, Brenda Leigh), as Sharon, incandescent with rage, wrenched off her left heel and thrust it in the chief's face.

"These are $800 shoes!" Raydor snarled, shaking the shoe for emphasis. "This has been the second worst fucking day of my entire fucking career; a child is dead; a young officer's career is ruined; Pope is apoplectic; Taylor's a smarmy jackass; two of my people are out with the fucking flu; everyone looks at me like I'm the motherfucking Grim Reaper; and now the fucking heel of one of my fucking favorite shoes is _fucking broken!_" For the big finish Sharon released her grip on the offending article, sending it hurtling into the darkness.

Brenda stared at her in horrified dismay, her generous mouth a perfectly round o.

Sharon stared back, equally appalled.

For an agonizing second Brenda thought her companion was on the verge of bursting into tears.

And then Raydor giggled.

That was the only word for the sound coming from the older woman's throat, and it was every bit as shocking as her violent outburst the moment before. Suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of the situation – standing here in a dark alley with _Sharon Raydor_, of all people, ranting and raving and wearing only one shoe – Brenda tried to choke back her own laughter, but it was a losing battle. The two women laughed, and Sharon shook off her remaining shoe and stood with her perfectly manicured toes bare on the filthy asphalt, and they laughed some more, until their sides hurt and tears pooled in their eyes, and Brenda's eyeliner was as smudged as Sharon's had been before.

Later Brenda Leigh would think that was probably when it had happened, when some little something had changed, clicked into focus like when she was sitting in the chair at the optometrist's office and the doctor adjusted the lens so that it was just right, correcting for what he called "typical over-forty vision loss," and suddenly everything became clear. She knew in that moment that Sharon Raydor was more than a convenient ally, more than a fearsome enemy, if not exactly a friend, not a friend like any Brenda had had before.

At any rate, once they'd regained their composure and Sharon had flopped back against the hood of the car like a bizarrely elegant version of a lurid magazine centerfold, Brenda's doubts had dissipated. She was glad she'd asked the other woman to go for a drink, and glad Sharon had agreed.

"Come on," the chief said, still grinning, her accent more pronounced than usual. "I've got a pair of flip-flops in the trunk. I think you deserve that drink."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so very much to the brave souls who reviewed the first chapter! In addition to the smattering of reviews, some of you have done the story alert thing, and there has been a sprinkling of approval in the tumblrverse as well; thus I'm going with the assumption that people are still reading and you don't all think this sucks. However, I would love to hear from you, because I'm an attention whore like that. Pretty please, with bourbon on top._

**Chapter Two: Who Needs Enemies?**

The first double bourbon was the best idea Sharon had had all day, at least until she ordered the second double bourbon. She closed her eyes lazily, relishing the liquid burn of the smoky alcohol gliding down her throat, spreading through her stomach, warming her. She shook out her hair and arched her shoulders back, stretching her arms above her head as if she were in a yoga studio rather than a dingy little bar, feeling her body relax on a cellular level and knowing her mind would soon follow. "You can just keep your Reese cups and your Twizzlers, honey," she murmured in the chief's general direction. When she received no response, she opened her eyes to find her companion staring at her, dark eyes huge in her pale face.

"What?" Raydor demanded, feeling a sudden twinge of self-consciousness as she let her arms drop to her sides.

Brenda quickly shook her head, the pallor overspread by a flush. "Nothing. I just don't see how you could prefer this to chocolate."

"You are such a child, chief."

Naturally, probably inevitably, they ended up talking about work, but they only skimmed the surface. Brenda didn't tell Sharon that she woke up at least twice every night, sick with dread, her heart pounding, and brooded over the specter of the federal case looming before her. Sharon didn't describe how Rachel Michaels spat in her face before dissolving into hysterical, broken sobs. The conversation didn't really matter. What mattered was that these two women, of all the women in the world, were sitting shoulder to shoulder on stools at a seedy dive bar in East L.A., having any conversation at all, while Raydor pounded bourbon and Brenda nursed a single shot. Because one of them had had an epically shitty day. Because it was better than being alone, and they were both too solitary and driven to have friends, according to the traditional definition of the term. Because neither of them had done anything like this in a long time – a very long time.

When the first man, long and lean and about Brenda's age, strolled over a little too casually and offered to buy Sharon a drink (an offer she turned down politely but firmly), Brenda smirked. When a second man tried to chat up the brunette, she permitted herself a small laugh. By the time bachelor number three appeared, Brenda was half incredibly amused, half offended. Was she invisible?

"I swear," she observed, "they're getting' younger," and the captain smirked.

"You haven't spent much time in bars, have you, Brenda Leigh? That's the way it goes. The later it gets, the younger the punters."

Brenda raised her eyebrows and delicately sipped her noxious beverage. She wouldn't allow anyone to question her devotion to her nightly large glass – or two – of merlot, but she'd never felt the lure of hard liquor. She wasn't sure how she felt about the possibility that Captain Raydor _had_ spent a lot of time in bars – but then, she'd known about this place, hadn't she?

Brenda pouted. Maybe she was feeling that drink a little after all. Because what did it matter whether random strangers in a bar found her appealing or not? She was a married woman, for heaven's sake. And what did it matter that Sharon Raydor's voice took on a half-mocking, smoky sweet lilt whenever she said "Brenda Leigh"?

That thought was more disturbing than the one that had preceded it, so she looked down at the captain's now-empty glass. "D'you want another, Capt'n?"

The skin at the corners of Sharon's eyes crinkled when she smiled, really smiled with her whole face and her bright eyes, and not just with a twitch of the muscles in her mouth. "No," she pronounced decidedly. "I want to be able to walk out of here, which is enough of a challenge in these boats you call shoes."

"Watch it, Captain. I just might order you to walk back to the car barefoot."

"Hmm. And as my superior officer, how will you feel when I step on a used hypodermic and sue you and the department?" Raydor retorted, signaling the bartender for their bill.

A few minutes later they were walking out of the bar together. The cool night air hit Sharon and she stumbled, but quickly caught herself.

"Was that you or the flip-flops?" Brenda asked pertly, and Sharon flushed slightly.

"A combination, I suppose. You're all right to drive, chief?"

Even a little drunk, Raydor was looking to tomorrow, sliding back toward their usual workplace formality – hold the side of bitchiness, perhaps, at least until one of them pissed the other off. Brenda acknowledged the maneuver with a smile that was both grudging and admiring. "I'm perfectly fine. I didn't even finish that nasty thing." Sharon's usual smirk reappeared. "Can I drive you home?"

She shook her head, the curtain of dark hair shimmering in the light from the bar. "I'll call a cab. It's out of your way, chief." She paused. "Thank you, though," she added in a different tone, and Brenda knew she was being thanked for more than the offer of a lift.

Brenda was strongly tempted to stay and wait with Sharon – so she set off at a quick clip, looking back at the other woman, who leaned against the building with her phone clamped to hear ear, looking perfectly at ease. She felt Brenda's eyes on her, she must have, and met the blonde's dark gaze. The older woman didn't smile; she just looked. Brenda grinned, caught out and feeling foolish, and fluttered her fingers in a silly little wave before heading straight for her car.

It occurred to Brenda, belatedly, that Fritz would be – well, not wondering where she was. He'd assume she was at work, of course. But he would wonder why she wasn't answering her phone, assuming he'd tried to – Yes. Two missed calls, she noted, checking the screen. A wave of guilt rolled over her. She was sure she'd meant to call him eventually, but the captain had been there, and they'd gotten to talking… He'd understand, of course. He always understood, which was one of the things that had drawn Brenda to the man who was now her husband, one of the things she loved about him. It was late now, nearly one – had she and Sharon Raydor really spent three hours together? – and Fritzi would be sleeping. They could talk about it tomorrow.

Tomorrow. They were almost sure to catch a murder, tomorrow. Thoughts of morning coffee and Fritz and blood spatters and Tao dusting for prints, living out his CSI fantasy, got mixed up with thoughts of Raydor and dead little girls and thick reports and sharp stilettos, and the way the woman had husked out "Brenda Leigh." The deputy chief felt like she was in a fog as she tripped along. It was unexpectedly cool – the seasons tended to rear their heads at odd moments in Southern California, taking her by surprise – and she was glad she had her sweater, and had Fritz asked her to buy more cat food for Joel? Or was it litter?

She heard the footsteps but didn't really register them (Did Sharon really frequent places like this? Did she go home with those younger men? It was so hard to imagine -), just as Sharon hadn't really registered Brenda's footsteps earlier in the evening. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, she'd think later. One a.m. on a workday, on a quiet back street in a semi-seedy neighborhood: you didn't need police training to tell you to stay alert and keep your wits about you, you just needed a dab of common sense. But for once Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson was distracted.

She felt his presence when he was right behind her, but it was too late. A thick arm clasped her abdomen like a vise while a calloused hand slammed over her mouth, smashing her lips into her sharp, even teeth with brutal force. "Scream and you're dead, bitch."

The line was hardly original, but it was effective, Brenda supposed. She moved as quickly as she could, twisting at the waist and slamming her knee into her assailant's crotch. The angle wasn't great, but she'd managed to get enough momentum to inflict some damage, and he let out a grunt. The dim glow from the streetlight half a block away revealed a shock of blond hair and skin as pale as her own. She took the opportunity to wrench away from his relaxed grip, and vaguely registered the sound of hard plastic hitting the asphalt and cracking – her phone – and the weight of her bag slipping from her shoulder as she pivoted to face him. Holding her hands up, palms out, she took a single step back. The commanding gesture surprised her attacker enough that he just watched her, his watering eyes narrowing.

"You don't want to do this," Brenda said steadily. "I'm LAPD."

His gaze raked over her in a way that made Brenda's blood boil. She knew better than to run; if he chased her, he'd catch her, and he had a knife. Besides, Brenda didn't run away. Ever.

"Put down the knife."

The sneer that twisted the blond man's lips was the ugliest thing the chief had seen since Taylor had showed up at a crime scene in that baby pink silk shirt with the matching iridescent tie. "Okay," he said simply, tossing the blade haphazardly into the darkness over his shoulder – Raydor's shoe was out there somewhere, the chief thought incongruously – and the glint of pure pleasure in those red-rimmed eyes telegraphed to Brenda that she definitely had not regained control of the situation. She barely even needed the visual confirmation that she was now staring down the barrel of her own service weapon.

_Well, shit, Brenda Leigh_.

She was already vitriolically cursing herself (_idiotic fucking half-assed rookie mistake_) as she said, "Come on, now. You're about to get yourself into a whole lotta trouble. You've got what you came for. Just take the bag and walk away."

He actually grinned.

"You know what happens to cop killers?" she continued, her voice steely and her nerves taut. There was no time to be afraid. Fear wasn't a productive response anyway. Brenda was just mad. Just really goddamn pissed off.

"I'm willin' to find out, lady."

The hammer clicked, and Brenda thought a little insanely that this scumbag had just proved her right: it really wasn't that hard to find what you were looking for in her oversized tote.

And then she realized that she'd heard the hammer click in surround sound, and that her life was not a movie.

"LAPD. Drop your weapon."

Crisp consonants, liquid vowels, total command.

Pale blue eyes flickered over Brenda's shoulder for a second before returning to her face. "Ooh, two lady cops," he murmured. "Must be my lucky day."

"Must be," Sharon agreed, and she was much closer now. "Put the gun on the ground."

The man – he couldn't have been more than twenty-five, younger even than the men hitting on Sharon back at the bar – tightened his grip on Brenda's gun.

"You'd better do what she says," Brenda cautioned softly.

"Last time. Put the gun down."

Instead he readjusted his grip, and Brenda knew he was actually going to do it, going to shoot her at close range, and –

The explosion of the gunshot reverberated through her whole body, zinging through her veins, rattling her sinus cavities. She felt the warm, wet, sticky trickle of blood on her collarbone.

Brenda moved automatically, feeling as if she were watching someone else, kicking the gun away from the man's nerveless fingers. "You got him in the chest," she said, and her voice was a little high. "He's still breathin'."

Sharon was already on the phone demanding back-up. Brenda heard the imperative tone of her voice but didn't bother listening to the words. She knew them by heart anyway.

And then the captain was beside her, their elbows brushing as she took stock of the situation, took stock of the deputy chief. Green eyes keenly examined the blonde before Sharon spoke. "If this is what happens when you have a drink, chief, no wonder you prefer chocolate."

Brenda's laugh scraped rawly over her throat, and then she grabbed Sharon Raydor's hand, linking their fingers and squeezing until the gesture pained both of them.

The captain didn't move to extricate herself until the ambulance screeched up beside them, the black and whites seconds behind. Then the brunette took two small steps and stopped. "Fuck," she swore at no one in particular. Or wait, no. At someone very particular, as Brenda – the only one within hearing range, or at least the only one playing attention – realized. "Fuck, Sharon."

Brenda grabbed her blazer-clad shoulder. "Sharon? Captain, you saved my life."

Raydor blinked once, slowly. "Perhaps. But you're resourceful, chief," she responded with less emotion than she used when she spoke about protocol and legality and the chain of evidence, and Brenda blinked back, suddenly – ridiculously – hurt.

"Well, excuse me, Captain, for thinkin' you might be just a little bit pleased that I'm not the one splattered all over the ground."

"He'll probably make it," Sharon returned, watching the busy paramedics loading Brenda's would-be killer into the back of their bus. "I got him on the right, so—" She tilted her chin, meeting the other woman's gaze, and then actually rolled her eyes. "Chief. _Brenda_. Of course I'm glad I was here."

"What, then?"

The question should've been an insensitive one. Raydor had just shot a man, after all. It was hardly something to celebrate. But this was Sharon Raydor, for pete's sake, and the man had been threatening a fellow officer. Brenda couldn't exactly envision the older woman holding a vigil at his bedside in ICU.

"Hello, chief. Captain? We're ready for you, if—"

Brenda recognized the younger man, although she fumbled for his name. He was FID, one of Sharon's people. Trust her to call them herself.

Sharon was already removing the clip from her weapon and handing it over, all business. "I only fired one round, Lieutenant. I was standing right here –" She moved, indicating the spot – "and I had a clear shot."

The tall lieutenant scratched his ear, a gesture that made the chief think of Tao, and she followed his gaze downward. He was staring at Sharon's feet. Only then did Brenda realize the other woman wore no shoes.

"Your flip-flops are over there somewhere." Sharon waved into the outer darkness. "I couldn't run in them."

Brenda gawked. "But you can run in those ridiculous stilettos you trot around in?" she demanded.

Raydor sighed. "Yes, Chief. I can. Proceed, please, Lieutenant. Let's get this over with."

Deputy Chief Johnson knew well enough – all too well, she'd say – how use of force investigations were carried out, but at the moment she wasn't thinking like Deputy Chief Johnson. So it took her a moment to realize what Sharon particularly dreaded as she stepped away with the lieutenant – Havermeyer, that was it – and he extracted the small breathalyzer from the back seat of his car.

_Oh._

Havermeyer said nothing, but tilted the machine so Sharon could see the result, a number well over the legal limit. She simply nodded. "I wasn't planning to drive anywhere." Or use a firearm, she didn't add.

"Elliott's waiting to take your statement."

Sharon nodded again, folding her arms into the feeble warmth of her blazer, and moved away. Brenda followed her automatically until Havermeyer's voice stopped her. "Ah, ma'am? Chief Johnson?"

She looked back to see him holding up the breathalyzer. "Oh, right." Brenda forced a weak smile. "My turn, I s'pose."

When the chief had finished giving her statement she walked straight over to where Sharon was leaning against one of the patrol cars, a foot tucked up behind her like a flamingo. She looked completely exhausted, and as Brenda approached she saw Elliott tentatively reach out and rub his commanding officer's shoulder. Sharon lifted her head and brushed a stray strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "The chief is free to go, isn't she, Tim?"

"Yes, Captain."

"What about you?" Brenda's gaze ricocheted between the captain and the sergeant. "Come on, I'll give you a ride home. That's the least I can do."

Raydor shook her head decisively.

"I'm not anywhere close to the limit, Captain," Brenda added, bristling.

"I know. Still wouldn't look good, us leaving together."

Brenda rolled her eyes, but before she could argue another voice spoke up. "I'll take her if you can spare me, Chief."

The chief blinked. "Lieutenant Flynn. Where'd you come from?"

He grinned wryly. "A deputy chief of the LAPD was attacked, and a captain shot the assailant. That makes this –"

"A major crime. Yes, of course." Brenda sighed and ran a hand through her tangled curls, distracted by the fatigue on Captain Raydor's face. There was Sanchez, just getting out of his car. "All right, lieutenant. You go on and take Captain Raydor home. Detective Sanchez is here, and I'm sure the others aren't far behind."

Raydor frowned and readjusted her glasses. "Chief. You cannot run this investigation."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Brenda all but stomped her foot. "I'm a witness, aren't I? So I have every right to be here. And besides, it's my job to make sure my team is set up to handle the situation. So you just go on with Andy." Brenda made a shooing motion, and Sharon scowled as Flynn put a hand on her back, coaxing her away from the squad car.

"Chief—"

"I _know_. Now, _captain_, go home and sleep it off. That's an order," Brenda said harshly and Sharon winced, but turned and marched off toward Flynn's car. The chief's gaze followed the blackened soles of her delicate feet. She hoped the other woman hadn't stepped on one of those used hypodermics she was so worried about.

Despite Raydor's darkest fears, Brenda wasn't completely foolhardy. She went over and spoke to Tao, who had just arrived, and Sanchez, but forced herself to hang back, playing the unfamiliar and unwelcome role of spectator at a crime scene. She watched as Provenza pulled up, shut off his ignition, and ponderously hoisted himself from behind the steering wheel. He made a beeline for her, and the chief welcomed the distraction, at least until he opened his mouth.

"Chief," he began gravely. "You had a close call. Glad you're okay."

"Thank-you, lieutenant. So'm I."

Provenza looked around curiously. "Where's Raydor?"

Brenda frowned. "_Captain_ Raydor went with Lieutenant Flynn."

"Ah. He's already taken her downtown, then," he said, nodding, his square jaw looking even squarer than usual.

"Downtown at 3 a.m.? Andy's takin' her home, Lieutenant."

"_Home_?" Provenza exclaimed, his eyes bugging out. "I know it's the middle of the night, and Sharon Raydor is a ranking officer with over twenty-five years on the force – But do you mean to tell me you just released the chief suspect in the attempted murder of a deputy chief of the LAPD – namely you – from police custody so she could go _home_?"

Brenda stared, speechless for an instant, her eyes widening like twin saucers. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed again, and this time, as the wave of her exasperation crested, she did stomp her foot. "Lieutenant Provenza, you _idiot_. Captain Raydor wasn't aimin' at _me_!"


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I hope this one doesn't disappoint. Remember, reviews make me type faster._

**Chapter Three: Vices**

1.

Major Crimes caught a murder (Brenda vaguely remembered when the only thing she thought about catching was a monster catfish, down at the pond early on Saturday with her daddy, listening to the sleepy cattle low in the adjacent pasture) at 7:00 the next morning. Well, _murders_, to be precise. When Commander Taylor called Deputy Chief Johnson, he said he could handle it. Brenda didn't say anything, but she showed up at the crime scene forty-five minutes later.

The thing about a big, messy, old-fashioned drive-by was that it basically followed one of only two possible scripts. Option A: the bangers were too cocky or too scared or too high to clean up after themselves, and you busted them in an hour and a half, usually cowering in somebody's mama's basement drinking cheap beer, like a bunch of brutal overgrown children playing at being "hard" and "street." Or Option B: nobody saw anything, nobody knew from nothing, and the whole thing joined a troublesome pile of statistics from which it emerged five months or five years later when someone else ended up dead in another futile spray of bullets.

This was shaping up to be one of the latter, but Deputy Chief Johnson was at least going to make some people's quotidian existence very uncomfortable for a while before she accepted the inevitable and snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. She was standing over Tao's left shoulder, peering at the satellite map he'd pulled up on the computer monitor of the south central neighborhood where she'd spent too much of her day, when her phone burred in the pocket of her pale pink blazer. Her first impulse was to ignore it, but it might've been Flynn or Sanchez calling with something important.

It wasn't, but after the tiniest hesitation she answered anyway.

"So what's this I hear about Captain Raydor finally deciding to murder you?"

She pursed her lips. "Ha-ha. If that FBI thing doesn't work out, you could try stand-up."

A pause. "I'm glad you're okay, Brenda Leigh," Fritz resumed in a softer voice.

"Yeah, so'm I. It was good she – _Sharon_ was there."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

Brenda sighed, still definitely not laughing. "I'm working this drive-by, honey. Was there something…?"

"Not really. I just wanted to hear your voice, and you know I'm in court today." She had forgotten, actually. Wasn't it something about a drug cartel? It always seemed to be a drug cartel. She rubbed her forehead, mildly irritated by the interruption, and vaguely guilty because she couldn't suppress the spike of irritation. "Will you be home for dinner?"

"Yes," she decided impulsively, glancing at the wall clock. "There's not much else we can do here today. Do you want me to pick something up?"

"Nope. I'll cook."

"That'll be nice," she replied, summoning some genuine brightness. "I'm just gonna stop by FID and see if they need any more information about last night, and then I'll see you at home."

"Thank _Sharon_ for me," Fritz returned, placing a teasing emphasis on the name. Well, good grief. If you couldn't be on a first-name basis with someone who'd saved your life –

Brenda felt Tao and Gabriel's eyes on her as she hung up, and she fought down a nervous flush. It was ridiculous to be a little embarrassed by these intrusions of her personal life into her professional life, especially since Fritz spent much of his working life in the same building with her. "Y'all can go on home," she said. "Lieutenant Provenza's got the grid search under control, and Flynn and Sanchez are just finishing up the house-to-house. The rest'll keep til morning." She turned, automatically patting down her pockets for her glasses until she felt their familiar weight atop her head. As she dropped them back into place the chief continued, "I'm heading home myself, right after I go up and check in with Captain Raydor."

Tao looked at Gabriel. Gabriel looked at Tao. "Ah, chief," Tao began, and then seemed to run out of steam.

"What?" Brenda asked more sharply than she'd intended.

"It's just that you might want to give Captain Raydor a call instead," Gabriel hedged. "On her cell."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know they're busy with the officer-involved shooting from yesterday, but I'm just going to pop my head in for two minutes," she replied dismissively, striding toward her office. Men! Of course Sharon was busy, but she'd be able to spare thirty seconds so Brenda could thank her again. Besides, she had that message to pass on from Fritz. Brenda allowed herself to wonder whether or not the older woman had a hangover.

"She's not in the bulding."

"Well, detective, you seem very well-informed about everyone's movements," Brenda replied in the sugary tone that she knew drove them all crazy. "It's too bad you weren't quite so successful with our little trigger-happy gang-bangers. So if you'd care to enlighten me – where, pray tell, _is_ Captain Raydor?"

The long-suffering Gabriel blinked. "At home, I imagine, chief. But definitely not here. Chief Pope suspended her this morning."

Brenda felt her jaw drop as her hands automatically found their way to her hips. "What on earth for? And how come you know about it and I don't?"

"Ah, Commander Taylor told me. He's investigating the OIS. FID can't do it, obviously, and we can't, so the commander is a neutral third party. Until he clears the captain –"

"Of what?" the chief demanded.

Gabriel pulled a face, taken aback by the unexpected display of concern for the Wicked Witch. The two of them went out for one drink – well, a few drinks on Raydor's part; David had seen her B.A.C. – and now they were bosom buddies? He himself wasn't overly fond of the captain. It was less because she'd been in charge of his own OIS investigation, and more due to her involvement in what had euphemistically been referred to as the "transparency audit" of Major Crimes. It might not have been strictly logical, but part of Gabriel couldn't help blaming her for the way he'd been ostracized by the rest of the team. The way he was still being ostracized, to an extent.

"She fired her weapon and seriously injured a civilian, chief," he pointed out patiently. "You know that necessitates an inter-departmental investigation."

"Well, but not a _suspension_, for heaven's sake!" Brenda exclaimed. "I was right there; I can tell Commander Taylor everything he needs to know." Her features took on that mulish expression her squad knew oh-so-well. "Where is that man? I want to talk to him right now."

"I don't think he's in his office," Tao put in, and the chief snorted at that grandiose description of the other man's glorified cubicle.

Not deterred, Brenda checked for herself. Indeed, Taylor's workspace was tenanted only by his model planes. In her own proper office she dialed his cell. The call went to voicemail, so she called Will, whose secretary informed her the chief had left for the day.

"Well, that's it," Brenda declared to the murder room at large as she stalked through on her way to the parking garage via the elevator. "I'm just going to find Captain Raydor myself and see what's goin' on."

Gabriel and Tao had shut down their computers and were gathering their things in preparation to leave for the night when Chief Johnson returned a few minutes later, clutching her car keys in one hand. She looked slightly sheepish.

"Chief?" Tao inquired mildly.

The blonde bit her lip. "Does anybody actually know where Captain Raydor lives?"

2.

A pair of uninteresting but potentially relevant facts: Los Angeles is, as is rather well known, a big city. The perpetually snarled traffic makes it feel even bigger.

So Brenda wasn't really sure why she wasn't surprised to discover that Sharon Raydor lived less than fifteen minutes away from her own bungalow.

She parked behind Sharon's car and walked quickly up to the front door of the two-story, red-roofed Mission-style. Judging from the neighborhood, the house was a remnant of the influx of 1920s "new money," the heady period of grease paint and flappers and burgeoning film studios before the entire country was swallowed by the stock market crash. It would have creaky pipes and a nice patio out back, put in after someone got tired of the hassle and filled in the swimming pool.

It was only after she'd already committed herself by ringing the doorbell that the chief felt an unaccustomed flutter of anxiety. One disastrous night out together hardly guaranteed that Raydor would be pleased to see Brenda on her front porch – particularly since the events of that night had earned the captain a suspension and the starring role in a use-of-force investigation.

With no warning, the heavy wooden door with its colorful stained-glass window swung open, and Brenda found herself looking into quizzical green eyes. "Chief?"

"Hey, captain."

No wonder she hadn't heard Sharon coming: absent were the stilettos, replaced by thick wool socks. Well, naturally. Not even Raydor would prance around her own house in designer shoes, would she? She'd be worried about scratching the floors – because a house like this one would have nice wooden floors, the color of unfiltered honey.

Raydor had followed the blonde's gaze down to her feet. "If you came to get your shoes back, you're out of luck," the captain offered wryly. "So I suppose I owe you, what, ten dollars?"

"Don't be silly." Those green eyes just stared at her. Right: the time had come for Brenda to explain what she was doing there, on the front porch of the woman she'd considered her arch-nemesis until a few months ago, a woman she still wasn't sure she could call a friend. Unfortunately, Brenda wasn't entirely sure she knew why she was there. "I heard you were suspended?" The lilt at the end of the statement turned it into a question.

The brunette nodded and stepped back. "Would you like to come in, chief?" she asked, sounding equal parts resentful and amused.

"I would, thank you," Brenda gushed, smiling brightly as she followed the other woman into a wide, shallow foyer. When in doubt, fall back on your southern manners. A flight of wooden stairs immediately led up to the floor above, and somewhere off to the left a faint glow spilled out from a lamp in another room, but what the deputy chief could see of the house was shrouded in deep early-evening shadows. The air carried a trace of vanilla mixed with cigarette smoke.

"I was out back," the captain said, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered in the darkness. "If you'll come through –"

Brenda stepped through open sliding glass doors onto a patio almost exactly like the one she'd imagined, only she hadn't anticipated the blooming jasmine or the ash tray and pack of cigarettes on the wrought-iron table. The bottle of red wine came as less of a surprise.

"Would you like a glass?" Sharon asked politely, and at the chief's quick nod she disappeared back inside the house. By the time Brenda had settled into the chair opposite the one the other woman had clearly been occupying before the doorbell had disturbed her, she was back.

"Cabernet sauvignon," the chief observed as the captain poured, and Sharon strugged.

"Well – the old standard. What can I do for you, chief?"

Brenda fought down a quick surge of annoyance at that carefully articulated "chief." It was what she'd expect from Gabriel, say, or Tao if she dropped by one of their homes unannounced: the cordial politesse of a colleague, slightly starchy and uncomfortable around the edges. Her annoyance was silly; Captain Raydor _was_ a colleague. But last night, after a shot of bourbon, she hadn't had any trouble saying "Brenda Leigh."

"You kept me from gettin' shot, captain," she replied, accepting the glass. "I think you've done enough, don't you? I thought maybe I could do something for you instead."

Elegant fingers hesitated for an instant in the act of extracting a cigarette from the pack on the table. "Such as?"

"I can talk to Commander Taylor, or better yet, to Will, and get this ridiculous suspension sorted out for you."

"No." This time there was absolutely no hesitation. "No, please don't do that, chief. If you'll just cooperate with the investigation and let things run their course –"

"But there's no reason to wait for that!" Brenda cried. "You didn't do anything wrong – and if a deputy chief of the LAPD isn't a reliable witness, who on earth is?"

"There are regulations that must be followed," Raydor replied with quiet firmness, still holding the unlit cigarette between two fingers. "Protocol states that –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! You shot some creep who was trying to kill me!"

That twitch of her mouth, Brenda had come to realize, was what the captain did when she refused to let herself smile. "Chief." She paused after the title as she often did, as if it were a complete sentence on its own. "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the top brass tends to frown upon the practice of an intoxicated officer taking pot shots at a petty thief. Particularly when said officer is the head of F.I.D."

Brenda stared at her, disgruntled. When she put it that way – "But there's still no reason why you should be suspended," she protested stubbornly. "Other officers don't get suspended when they're being investigated for using force – and I ought to know. I would've lost my entire division at one time or another if that were the case. Well, except Provenza. And Lieutenant Tao," she added as an afterthought.

Sharon grimaced. "Yes. That is true. But you must see that my situation is different. I can hardly be allowed to be seen doing my job – investigating allegations of unnecessary force – when I'm being investigated for the use of unnecessary force."

Brenda grunted. "It looked pretty necessary from where I was standin'."

Sharon actually did smile. "I'm going to smoke now."

The chief gestured for her to go ahead. "By all means. I'm the one who came barging in here. Is this one of your 'more adult' vices?"

The smile transformed into a smirk as Sharon finally lit the cigarette. "Sometimes."

The evening was pleasantly cool, and the captain was enveloped in an oversized, gray cableknit cardigan – a far cry from her usual attire. Brenda studied her intently. That was Captain Raydor, she realized. Captain Raydor of the stilettos and Armani suits. Sharon Raydor was sitting across the table, wearing blue jeans and smoking Marlboros. Brenda didn't know much about Sharon Raydor, but she'd certainly met her last night, maybe for the first time.

Raydor felt the dark brown gaze and got the wrong idea that was, maybe, the right idea after all. "Want one?" she offered, holding out the cigarettes, and Brenda felt her face split into a naughty grin as she answered, "Sure, why not?"

A few moments later the younger woman said, "I didn't know you smoked."

Sharon smirked. "Oh, I don't."

"And you don't drink bourbon."

"Nope," her companion agreed.

"Well, don't you just keep unfoldin' like a flower."

Husky laughter flowed out on the moist night air. Brenda shivered – from the cool breeze, of course. "What, you expected me to show you where I park my broomstick? Only members of the coven are privy to that information, chief."

Brenda winced. Of course Raydor knew about the nickname. Raydor seemed to know about most things that went on inside the LAPD. "Are you hungry?" she heard herself ask abruptly. "It's just I skipped lunch –"

"Yes. You caught that drive-by."

"We did. Is that yes, you're hungry?"

The captain indicated the cigarettes and wine. "This isn't much of a dinner."

"Great," Brenda said brightly. "Do you like Chinese? Everybody likes Chinese. I usually order from this place that's –"

"Indian." Sharon stood up, cigarettes in one hand, cabernet in the other.

Brenda blinked. When she and Fritz ordered in she was almost always the decider. "I don't really know much about Indian food."

Those perfect brows arched. "Would you like to learn?"

"Well, I – Okay. I guess so. Where are you going?"

"To put on shoes. We can order delivery if you'd rather, but I should get out of the house for a while. I know myself, and otherwise I'll just sit here and brood. It's only a few minutes away," she added.

Which is how, for the second night in a row, Brenda found herself going out in public with Sharon Raydor.

As Brenda backed out of the driveway, she thought of what the other woman had said about her house being out of the chief's way. It wasn't. By no stretch of the imagination could a fifteen-minute drive be considered "out of the way" in Los Angeles terms. That made Brenda think of something else.

"Hey, Sharon?" she asked, ostensibly checking the rearview mirror but taking advantage of the opportunity to see the captain's expression from a different vantage point when she responded. "Why were you there last night, on the street?"

Instead of answering verbally, Sharon leaned down and fished around under her own seat. After only a few seconds she held up a manila folder that bore the familiar LAPD seal as well as the word "confidential."

Brenda finally had the opportunity to smirk at Captain Raydor. "Is that how the head of FID customarily treats highly confidential files?"

Raydor pressed her lips together. "It's not _highly_ confidential," she minced. "Just confidential."

"Oh, well, I see how that'd make a big difference."

The captain got her own back, rank be damned, by effortlessly taking control in the restaurant and ordering a smattering of dishes for them to share. "Oh, but I forgot," she amended, halting the progress of the white-shirted waiter. Two pairs of brown eyes fixed upon her expectantly. "You're an only child, chief, and you don't share well."

"And you do?" Brenda retorted incredulously, nodding for the waiter to go about his business.

"With most people, yes, Brenda Leigh." That cat-like expression was back and Sharon's eyes twinkled, and she was teasing, but she was also saying "Brenda Leigh" again, so Brenda found that she didn't care, not even when Sharon went on, "I just want to know in advance if you're going to fight me for the rice."

"Oh, come on. I'm not that bad."

Sharon smirked. Damn that smirk anyway.

"Nobody likes to have FID around," the chief continued defensively.

"Well, ain't that the truth," the brunette returned evenly, and Brenda's eyes dropped to the napkin spread across her lap.

"I didn't mean it that way, not the way it sounded."

"Of course you did," Sharon replied briskly as the waiter brought their drinks to the table – a mango lassi for Sharon, and a Coke for Brenda. (Raydor had practically snickered into her sleeve when the chief had ordered it. She probably never drank soda, or ate candy_. But she smokes_, Brenda thought triumphantly, her eyes narrowing. _So there_.) "You can't possibly think I don't know how my fellow officers feel when they see us coming. But you're not supposed to like us," the woman pointed out and paused, delicately sipping her thick drink through the straw. "We are a _deterrent_."

Brenda considered, and then chuckled half-admiringly. "You're saying it's not just the punishment you mete out, but that your presence itself is punishment?" Raydor nodded, and the chief thought, _What a way to think of your job_. "So is that why you always act like such a –"

She broke off suddenly, realizing she was about to leap, not step, over a line.

"Is that why I'm such a bitch?" Sharon finished for her, guilelessly. "No, chief. That's just my personality."

The brunette held Brenda's gaze unflinchingly and Brenda stared back, for once at a total loss for an appropriate response. And then Sharon's lips curved into a supremely wicked grin.

"You really are a bitch," Brenda decided, but she felt herself grinning back.

An hour and a half later Brenda had learned a few things: she liked daal and papadum, was too wimpy for anything vindaloo (for which Sharon Raydor would disparage her from now until the end of time), and she should have ordered her own mango lassi. She'd dropped the captain off in front of her dark, quiet house and, all in all, was feeling rather pleased with herself as she sailed through her own front door, tossed her keys onto the hall table with a merry jangle, and gaily called, "Fritzi! Joel! I'm home."

The cat, who recognized the deputy chief as the purveyor of possible between-meal treats, greeted her with an ankle rub and a meow. Her husband, on the other hand, was conspicuously silent. "Fritz?" Brenda called again, following the sound of the television into the living room, and there he was, sprawled on the sofa in his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. His hair was ruffled. He was at his cutest with ruffled hair, more sleepy-eyed little boy than polished federal agent.

"Hey, honey," Brenda greeted him, stepping out of her slingbacks and wiggling her aching toes. How in the world did Sharon wear those high-fashion torture devices of hers all day? "So guess what? I learned that I like Indian food. Well, some of it. I couldn't touch one of the dishes we ordered, it was so spicy. Have you ever had a lassi? It's like a milkshake. It's not quite as good 'cause it's not quite as sweet, but it's better for you."

Fritz finally looked up from the divisional baseball playoff he was watching. "Yeah, Brenda, I know what a lassi is. I've been telling you for six years that you'd like Indian if you'd just try it. Why the sudden culinary adventurousness?"

His voice had an unusually sharp, metallic tinge that Brenda chose to ignore for the moment. "Well, it was what Sharon wanted."

He stared. "Sharon _Raydor_?"

"I don't know any other Sharons, do you? Not in Los Angeles." When he didn't answer, Brenda approached the sofa and squeezed into the empty space above his hip. "Fritzi, what's the matter?"

"I cooked, Brenda. I told you I was making dinner. You said you'd be home hours ago."

Brenda's face fell. "Oh, honey. Oh, Fritzi, I'm so sorry," she said, feeling stricken and reaching to stroke his arm. "I – I completely forgot."

He spared her a brief glare. "How could you have forgotten? You said you were on your way home then."

"And I was, but I had to go up to Internal Affairs first about the shootin' last night." Brenda snuggled closer to his warm body, seeking the reassurance of his presence.

"And Captain Raydor kidnapped you and force-fed you Indian food, did she?"

"Of course not. She wasn't even there, because Will's gone and suspended her, so I went to her house, and –" She trailed off, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. I'm awful, and I'm sure whatever you made is delicious. We can have it tomorrow night." The smile she flashed him was winning, and usually erased all the sharp edges of his displeasure.

"It was fish, and it's ruined. I threw it away."

Brenda looked down at her bare feet, trying to figure out how to make this right. She felt appropriately awful for having forgotten Fritz's meal, but she'd ended up having a really good time with Sharon Raydor, joking and trying new foods and debating departmental politics. It had been such a long time since she'd had a friend she could just go to dinner with. The problem, she realized, was that she was sorry she had upset her husband, but if she had it to do over again, she still would've gone to Sharon's house. She would've just called Fritz and told him something had come up at work.

… Which would've been dishonest. But being honest didn't exactly seem to be working in her favor at the moment.

"Honey?" she tried again, interrupting the long silence that had stretched out between them.

Fritz applied a gentle pressure at her hip, easing her away. "I can't see the television, Brenda Leigh," he said. "Two strikes, and the bases are loaded."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you sooo much to all the reviewers. I promise to respond to all of you individually from now on. Also, I know this chapter is a bit slow, but it moves the plot (yeah, that old thing) along._

**Chapter Four: Telephone**

1.

The insistent ringing of her cell phone woke Sharon from a deep, luxurious sleep, the sort of heavy sleep you can fall into after you wake up, look at your alarm clock, realize you don't have to get up, and cuddle your goose-down pillow with a sense of smug wellbeing. Sharon Raydor was not a morning person. She liked to stay up late, sleep late, and then spend an hour lazing over her morning coffee as her body and brain gradually tingled to life. Being suspended sucked, so, by God, she intended to take full advantage of the few benefits it offered, and indulging in her weekend ritual on a daily basis was one of them.

And she was being thwarted.

"Captain Raydor, ma'am? It's David Gabriel."

Oh, and here she'd thought it was probably the people from Publisher's Clearing House. (Did that even exist anymore?) She grunted in acknowledgement.

"Chief Johnson would like you to come downtown and assist us in our inquiries into what happened Wednesday night – or Thursday morning, to be exact."

Raydor swallowed a yawn. Perhaps her brain was working slowly because it hadn't yet been caffeinated, but she was confused. "That's Commander Taylor's investigation."

"The _use of force_ investigation is being handled by the commander," the detective emphasized. "The attack on Chief Johnson is a major crime."

Raydor sighed. So much for spending the morning on the patio with her French press. She could stop at Starbucks on her way in.

2.

The murder room was a hive of frenetic activity, as usual, and no one seemed overly concerned about Captain Raydor's entrance. They'd all gotten used to having her there among them, her black-clad figure gliding seamlessly in and out, over the last several months. Holding a cup of coffee in one hand, she surveyed the scene, and then simply walked over and sat down at the desk Lieutenant Tao had privately begun to think of as hers. Tao liked Raydor. She was smart, she kept to herself, her memory was almost as good as his, and she'd never once asked him to help her program anything electronic. As the phone dump he'd been working on finished downloading, he took it upon himself to poke his head into the chief's office and alert her to the captain's arrival.

That unmistakable voice rang out a moment later. "Captain, if you could come in here, please?"

One of Sharon's eyebrows quirked as she walked across the room. She'd gotten used to Chief Johnson's way of doing business, and now it amused her even while it irked her. Brenda was certainly the only chief she'd ever encountered who went out of her way to avoid giving overt orders. But those honeyed phrases, with their _pleases_ and _thank-yous_, were orders all the same.

"Good morning, captain."

"Good morning, chief." Raydor nodded at the two men opposite the blonde's desk. "Lieutenant Tao. Detective Gabriel."

"Thanks for comin' in," the chief continued.

Sharon lifted her shoulders. "I'm sure Commander Taylor will want to speak to me today as well."

"Yes, well. I'm sure we all hope _that_ business will be cleared up soon. But first –" The blonde rifled through the papers scattered over the surface of her desk. Sharon's desk was immaculate. "Oh, shoot, where _is_ that report?"

Wordlessly Gabriel handed her a sheaf of papers from the corner of the desk. The chief took this in stride. "Now Captain, this man you shot –"

"The mugger."

"Did you shoot someone else as well? – He's at Cedars in a medically induced coma."

("You nailed him pretty good, captain," Tao spoke up, and Raydor pursed her lips. "Close range," she murmured.)

" – and he's not going to be talking any time soon, from the sound of it."

"So how can I help?"

"We don't know who he is," Gabriel explained. "He didn't have any ID on him, and when we rolled his prints no hits turned up."

"No criminal record, then." Sharon considered this. "Well, I don't know him," she pointed out. "We didn't exchange pleasantries."

Tao muttered something that sounded a lot like "That's not what Provenza thinks," and the chief shot him a quelling look. "You gave a statement the other night detailing the events of the shooting – very precisely, I might add – but did you see the man in the area at any time before that?"

"No," the captain replied immediately. "I didn't see him on the street. He wasn't following you, if that's what you're asking." She paused. "Of course, strictly off the record and in no way connected with the OIS investigation, it is possible I was not at my most observant."

Brenda grimaced but refrained from saying something like "Well, obviously." "But surely you would've seen him if he'd been skulkin' around outside."

"I would have seen him," Sharon confirmed. "He didn't follow you to your car."

The chief nodded. "No, I didn't think so either. I heard him near the mouth of the alley."

"Crime of opportunity?" Gabriel suggested. "Maybe the guy's a vagrant. You said he was pretty scruffy around the edges, right?"

The chief nodded. "Detective, you and Provenza go back and go over that alley with a fine-toothed comb. Look for any sign that our mugger had been there, sleeping or –" She gestured vaguely. "Lieutenant Tao, you can get back to work on the cell phones of our victims from the drive-by."

"Sure thing, chief," Tao replied, accepting his congé.

When the two women were left alone Sharon folded her arms and regarded Brenda expectantly. "Just to be clear, you're working two cases simultaneously?"

"Yes, and neither of them is very interesting." Brenda knew how that sounded, but with Captain Raydor – with Sharon – she didn't care. "A drive-by and a muggin'. Welcome to glamorous Los Angeles."

"Oh, yes. I know I'm in this for the fast pace and the thrills."

"Don't blame me, you're the one who chose to spend your career pushing papers. Although I have to say you looked pretty comfortable with that Glock the other night."

Raydor bristled. "Of course I am. – Chief Johnson. Why am I here?"

Brenda frowned. "I just told you. We don't know who the mugger—"

"I could've told you that over the phone," Sharon interrupted, which was just as well because the chief didn't look like she knew how she was going to finish her sentence.

"Well, I'm sorry if I interrupted your mornin' with my investigation."

Raydor satisfied herself with a single nod. "I'll go see if Commander Taylor's in his office, if that's all."

The chief waved her away, and Sharon permitted herself a small, wry smile as she turned away. Brenda Leigh was being _nice_ again. She needed to stop that. Chief Johnson lived for her work with terrifyingly single-minded drive, and she was projecting how she would feel if she were suspended, shut out of something that concerned her so personally, onto the captain.

Of course, she was right.

Sharon shook her head and tapped on the wall of Taylor's cubicle. If the man had ever had any doubt about how Will Pope regarded him, his current accommodations must've cleared that up right away.

Tim Elliott looked like he was on the verge of swooning with relief when he saw his superior office appear in the doorway of FID after her "conversation" with the commander. "Captain!" he exclaimed, as if it had been years since she'd left her post, rather than slightly less than a day. The timing really was awful. Elliott and Havermeyer were both good officers, but leaving them to handle the Helena Peterson shooting felt like inviting disaster, particularly since Havermeyer had been with FID for only six months.

"I'm not here," Sharon replied cautiously. "I've just been assisting Major Crimes, and now I'm going home. But perhaps if you have any questions -?"

He had questions. Havermeyer had questions. Reyes had questions.

"Captain Raydor."

That was the tone of voice used by someone who was definitely not averse to giving overt orders. Raydor pivoted slowly, her chin raised. "Chief Pope."

He gave her a thunderous glare in return. "Obviously my eyes are deceiving me, because it appears that you are here. In the building. Working."

"I was assisting Major Crimes," she replied in a low voice.

"Uh-huh." His eyes took on that peculiar glint of irritated resignation they got whenever anyone mentioned Chief Johnson's division. "Well, now that you've finished _assisting Major Crimes_, you're on your way home. Or should I have a couple of uniforms escort you to your car?"

Sharon's jaw tightened, but her tone was carefully controlled. "That won't be necessary."

"See that it isn't, captain."

She waited for Pope to leave, but he just stood there, hovering. So that was how he was going to play it. That wasn't necessary either. Raydor fumed internally as she hoisted the strap of her purse a little higher on her shoulder, but her face remained as still as a carved ivory mask. Elliott, Havermeyer, and Reyes studied their desks, their wingtips, the wall calendar: anything but their captain or the acting chief.

Sharon's heels clicked just a measure faster than her usual pace as she headed for the elevator.

3.

"Captain Raydor."

Sharon pressed her cell phone to her ear as she waited for hr take-out order of drunken noodle with beef and, since no one could see her – no one who mattered, because the kid manning the register at her favorite Thai restaurant wasn't going to judge her – pinched the bridge of her nose, behind which a headache was beginning to pulse. Even if she hadn't had his number stored in her contacts, which unfortunately she did, she would've recognized that peculiarly irritating drawl anywhere. But why was the man persecuting her at 8:00 on Friday night? He sure as hell wasn't summoning her to a crime scene.

"Commander," she responded flatly. Sharon Raydor was the ultimate professional, but she tried to keep her interactions with this man to a minimum. His brand of self-important obsequiousness filled her with distaste. That she should have to speak to him twice in twenty-four hours _while she was suspended_ just wasn't fair.

_Oh, for heaven's sake_, she caught herself thinking, and then cringed.

"I need to speak with you, captain."

"Now?" she yelped, because even Sharon sometimes spoke without thinking.

"As soon as possible. In person."

"I can be downtown in –"

"That's not a good idea." A crackling, shuffling sound came over the connection. "Chief Pope is particularly desirous of keeping you away from headquarters until the issue of your use of force is resolved."

"And when do you anticipate that occurring?" she asked steadily, because she knew perfectly well that Taylor could keep her at bay for weeks, maybe even months, if he had a reason to do so, even if that reason was just spite. Although, as far as she knew, Taylor had no special reason to dislike her, no more than everyone generally disliked the head of FID.

"Not tonight."

Something crunched, and Sharon realized the sound came from inside her mouth. Wonderful. A cracked tooth would just be the cherry atop her shit sundae.

"But I do need to speak to you tonight. I have some questions for you. From Chief Pope."

Sharon's forehead wrinkled. After his display of petulance this afternoon, was the chief sending his intermediary to pick her brain about the investigation of Jack Kegan? It seemed unlikely, but if the situation was bad enough to have Pope swallowing a little of his pride –

"I can meet you somewhere."

"Your order's up," said the teenager at the register.

"Oh, there's no need for that." Taylor paused – for effect, the captain thought uncharitably. "Just head on home. I'm outside your house right now."

4.

Sharon liked to keep her work at work and her home life at home. Partially it was because she didn't think it hurt for the head of FID to maintain a slight air of mystery, but more than that it was simply in her nature. Sharon had always been deeply private, perhaps because privacy had been such a luxury when she was growing up in a none-too-large house, sandwiched between her brother and sister. She'd never been someone who needed a big network of friends or felt the urge to divulge her deepest, darkest secrets to casual acquaintances. And yet, for the second time in as many days, her work had invaded her home life.

The personification of that work was currently sitting on her living room sofa taking up too much space while the captain watched him with ill-concealed hostility. Her drunken noodle was going stone cold as it languished on the kitchen counter.

"Again, commander," she said, and surely he heard the edge in her voice, "I don't really understand what it is that you're asking. Perhaps if you were a bit more specific –"

"Why don't we take it from the beginning again? Just go over exactly what you were doing with Chief Johnson Wednesday night."

She stared at Taylor, unblinking. This was maddening. "I was having a drink," she said, and realized she was speaking extra slowly, as if she thought the commander was having difficulty comprehending her words. Perhaps he was, since this was the third time she'd answered these questions: in her statement, on the record in Taylor's office this morning, and now here, in her living room, when she should've been eating her dinner and watching whatever happened to be on TCM. "Bourbon on the rocks. I had three. Shall I be more specific?"

"No, Captain. And you were with Chief Johnson." That wasn't a question, so Sharon didn't answer it. Taylor raised his eyebrows. "It's fairly well known in the department that you and Chief Johnson don't care for each other's company."

Raydor raised her eyebrows right back as she began to see, just maybe, which way the wind was blowing. "I'm quite sure we weren't in violation of any rules." She meant what she said: she was _quite_ sure. Sharon had literally memorized the rulebook, the LAPD's official code of conduct, rules, and regulations. If the companion Taylor was asking about had been anyone other than Brenda Leigh Johnson, Sharon would've thought Taylor's line of (seemingly incredibly personal) questioning was headed in a different direction; but not even Taylor was that dumb. And Pope had sent him. They certainly couldn't think Raydor and Johnson were having some sort of… illicit affair.

No. They thought she and the chief were up to something. The realization was almost enough to make the captain laugh right in the commander's face. She imagined the two of them perched on adjacent bar stools, dark and light heads bowed together, conspiring over – what, exactly? For a few seconds Sharon diverted herself by imagining the LAPD assaulted by a rash of schoolyard pranks. They could shrink Pope's dress blues a couple of sizes, and Taylor would look quite fetching sporting an old-fashioned "Kick Me" sign.

"What it comes to, basically, is this," Taylor said, planting his palms on his widespread knees, and Sharon thought, _Finally_. "Chief Pope wants it made clear to you that it is not appropriate for you to ask Chief Johnson to interfere on your behalf or encourage her to impede my investigation in any way."

For a full measure in 4/4 time, Sharon Raydor was speechless. She opened her mouth. She closed it. She opened it again, determined to speak. All she came up with was, "Excuse me?"

"Look, I know you talked to Chief Johnson this morning." Sharon just stared some more. Of course he knew, the pompous ass; she herself had told him!

"Yes. Because the attack on Chief Johnson, to which I was a witness, is a major crime."

"And your OIS is not," Taylor returned, sitting up straighter. "Yet the very next thing you did was go up to Internal Affairs."

Sharon swallowed and said nothing. Her children would've picked up on the ominous tightening of her jaw, but Taylor was less observant, less wary. He and Pope thought she was asking _Brenda_ for favors? Taylor was suggesting, strongly suggesting, that Sharon was behaving unethically in order to alter the outcome of the investigation into her conduct – which only made sense if you proceeded from the foregone conclusion that her conduct had been unethical in the first place and she therefore had something to hide. Admittedly, having to gun down a perp while her blood was sixty percent bourbon hadn't been her finest hour; but she had done absolutely nothing wrong. It had been a good, clean shooting.

And there was no way in hell she would stoop to defend herself to Commander Taylor. Instead she gazed evenly at the man. At least he had, perhaps inadvertently, explained his surprise visit to Chez Raydor. For whatever reason, he and Pope – or he or Pope – thought she and Brenda had some sort of scheme afoot, the details of which they had presumably been ironing out over a few rounds Wednesday night at Fast Eddie's (because, yeah, obviously that would be the optimal location for covert activities), and that for murky related reasons Brenda wanted Sharon's suspension overturned.

Which, of course, meant the blonde chief had done exactly what the captain had asked her not to do, probably as soon as Sharon had left the building. In fact, she probably hadn't even waited for the other woman to leave; maybe that was why Pope had come looking for Sharon at FID and summarily booted her out of the building. Brenda Leigh had run straight to her ex-lover and insisted he reinstate Captain Raydor. And by doing so she had made everything exponentially worse – for Captain Raydor.

Sharon gritted her teeth (she really was going to have to make an appointment with her dentist), her lips twitching into a smile totally devoid of humor. "If that was all, commander, I haven't had my dinner."

He stood up as if on autopilot and looked down, waiting for her to explain or defend herself. Waiting for something.

The captain walked past him, straight to her front door, and opened it. Taylor eyed her for a moment, and then followed. She knew he thought he held all the trump cards in this game, so he had no reason to pick a fight with her now. He smiled.

"You have a good evening, captain."

"Just one thing." Taylor turned back, the boards of Sharon's front porch creaking under his frame. She spoke slowly, vainly wishing that this man could understand just how true her words were. "_When_," the captain asked calmly, "have _I_ ever had any influence on Brenda Leigh Johnson?" She leaned in her doorway, her back against the cool stained glass. Taylor regarded her for a long moment. Light from the hallway dappled her hair and skin with brilliant reds and yellows. "You enjoy your evening as well, commander. Good night."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: This chapter is kind of short and kind of slow. Gee, I make it sound so appealing, don't I? Hang in there!_

**Chapter Five: Brenda Has a Bad Week**

1.

"Well?" Deputy Chief Johnson asked, stopping in mid-tirade to fix Sanchez with her expectant, wide-eyed gaze.

"I called Captain Raydor, Chief." Julio paused, loosening his tie.

"And? What time will she be here, Detective?"

The detective surreptitiously glanced at his watch. 9:23. No matter what happened, this wouldn't be a new record. Chief Johnson had once gone ballistic at 9:03 on a particularly ugly morning when her candy drawer had been empty, they'd caught a triple, and someone (no one had copped to it, but Julio suspected Tao) had accidentally brewed decaf coffee. "She's not coming."

Those wide brown eyes widened further in dismay, then narrowed to twin slits. "Did you inform Captain Raydor that it was an order, not a request?"

"I let her know it came from you," Sanchez side-stepped, taking refuge at his desk.

"Well," Brenda repeated. "Excuse me, gentlemen." She walked very deliberately into her office and closed the door before extracting her cell phone from her purse.

That cool, controlled voice answered on the third ring. "Chief Johnson, good morning."

"Well, I thought it was, captain, until I found out you were refusin' a direct order from a superior officer," Brenda seethed.

"The last time I checked, Detective Sanchez was not my superior officer."

"I am."

"That's true." A pause. Brenda envisioned the other woman drinking coffee, probably sitting out on that damnable patio. "However, I'm certain you wouldn't attempt to countermand an order issued by Chief Pope, who is your superior officer. And Chief Pope suspended me."

Brenda stared at her phone. _Ooh, that woman!_ If she were suspended and someone had offered her an invitation, practically on a silver platter, to be involved with an investigation in any capacity, Brenda would've been down on her knees giving thanks. – Well, maybe not down on her knees. But that woman refused to be satisfied. She just wouldn't let the chief be nice.

"Well, I tried," Brenda fumed, and hung up.

"Chief?"

"I'm comin', Lieutenant Flynn. Wait for me," Brenda called, her heels clattering as she hurried after the last stragglers on her team. They all had a date with a very high-profile, very dead real estate baron in West Hollywood.

2.

"You know, it's probably a good thing you had that swimmin' pool filled in, captain." Brenda ducked under a low-hanging limb, and some sort of thistle scraped at her bare shins. "I'm startin' to think they're nothing but high-dollar death traps, good for drownin' in."

Sharon sighed heavily. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you, chief. Do you make a habit of skulking through people's yards? I hope not, because you're terrible at it."

"That's all right. I knew you weren't armed." Brenda cleared the last barrier between herself and the patio, and planted her hands on her hips. "I rang the doorbell. You didn't answer."

"No," the other woman replied pointedly, "I didn't. Why are you here?"

"I'm _here_ because you were so _rude_ today," the chief replied dramatically. "Honestly, Sharon, what has gotten into you?"

Raydor eyed her above a still-steaming mug of what looked like tea – no wine, no cigarettes. The evening air smelled of nothing but jasmine. "What has gotten into me? I'm suspended, Chief Johson."

"Don't you want to work?" Brenda demanded incredulously. "Or is it some kind of age thing? I know what Lieutenant Provenza's like. The closer he gets to retirement, the less he –"

"I'm sorry, did you just compare me to Louie Provenza?" Sharon interrupted in a deceptively low voice. "I'm five years older than _you_ are."

Her indignation had Brenda's lips twitching as she struggled to hold back a smile – she wasn't nearly as good at it as the captain – until Sharon went on, "You went straight to Will Pope on Friday, Brenda, right after I asked you not to. Do you know how that looks?"

"Like I'm concerned for my friend who saved my life," the chief huffed. The older woman was unbelievable. This was absolutely the last time she'd do a good deed for Sharon Raydor.

Sharon skipped the "friend" reference. "No. It looks like I think I need special favors to get my job back, and that undermines my integrity. Undermine my integrity, undermine my whole career, undermine _me_ – chief."

"You're totally blowin' this out of proportion."

"Of course," Raydor replied steadily. "That's why I had Russell Taylor on my doorstep Friday night, dispatched by Chief Pope."

Brenda frowned. "Are you saying I deliberately set out to undermine you?"

"No. I'm saying you didn't listen, you didn't think, you just acted without once considering the consequences. It's your typical pattern of behavior."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Phil," Brenda fumed defensively. How did Sharon always manage to put her on the defensive? "I was trying to do something nice for you, captain, not that you appear to understand the concept."

"You need to stop," Sharon replied very seriously. "It may have escaped your notice, but I don't react well to pity."

"Pity?" Brenda's eyes widened. "Why would I feel sorry for _you_?"

The emphasis was less than flattering, but the other woman either didn't notice (unlikely) or didn't care (much more likely). "Don't you? Poor, sad Captain Raydor, stuck at home indefinitely, without her shiny gun and her little rule book?"

"That sounds an awful lot like self-pity to me."

"It isn't. Because that is not an accurate assessment of my current situation." Sharon tilted her head, the only movement she'd made since Brenda had pitched up on her patio. Brenda found her control both unfathomable and infuriating. "You have certainly done enough, chief."

An exasperated Brenda planted her hands on her hips. "For pete's sake, you saved my life!"

"I did my job." Those unblinking moss-colored eyes lasered into Brenda's own. "You concentrate on doing yours, and once Commander Taylor has reached a satisfactory conclusion to his investigation, I can get back to doing mine as well."

Raydor's patient, deliberate intensity always made the chief feel like a naughty child with a milk mustache. Brenda Leigh had been a good student, but once in second grade she'd gotten into trouble for tearing off the corner of a page from her math workbook and writing an eloquent hate note ("I HATE YOU") to Sean, the boy who sat next to her in class and poked her with his pencil leads and talked over the teacher. Mrs. Madison had been a stern, demanding woman who had earned the little blonde girl's respect and, with it, her desperate desire to please; and the scolding she'd gotten from that middle-aged Georgia peach had left her feeling much as she now felt forty years later, looking into the green eyes of this rigid, inflexible, awful Yankee with her penchants for bourbon and chicken vindaloo.

"Would you like to get somethin' to eat?"

She knew it was the wrong thing to say.

"No," Sharon replied evenly. "My dinner is on the stove, and no, I won't invite you to stay."

Brenda felt herself flush. Rude, horrible woman! "Well, obviously your mama didn't teach you any manners."

"For the record, my 'mama' would be appalled. Emily Post couldn't hold a candle to her in her heyday." The wrought-iron chair scraped lightly across the Spanish tile as the older woman finally stood up. "I'll see you back at work, chief. Now, if you don't mind, I need to check my dinner, so I'll let you see yourself out."

Brenda looked from Sharon Raydor's retreating back to the intimidating grove of cacti and prickly pears immediately beside the patio. So appropriate for the captain, really.

And yet Brenda was sure she didn't imagine the humor lacing that low, husky voice as Raydor added, without looking over her shoulder, "Through the house, please, chief. My plants have had just about all the abuse they can withstand from your size nines."

3.

He was not the first person Deputy Chief Johnson wanted to see when she walked through the doors of the murder room. He was more like the last person she wanted to see. Anywhere. Ever.

She seized upon the person nearest her, who happened to be Lieutenant Flynn. "What is _he_ doin' here?"

"He says he's here to talk to you, chief," Andy replied stolidly, leveling a look at the shorter man.

"Well." Brenda raised her voice, false smile firmly in place. "Mr. Goldman and I have already said everything we could possibly have to say to each other. One of you gentlemen can show him out." Determined to ignore the attorney, she headed for her office.

"If you're busy this morning, chief, perhaps Detective Gabriel can spare me a few moments. David," he added, nodding cordially in the younger man's direction.

Gabriel gasped, doing his best guppy impersonation.

"Gabriel's busy too," Provenza growled.

"We all are," Sanchez contributed in that quiet, threatening tone he did so well.

"Yes, everyone's very busy," Brenda rejoined sharply, turning back to look at all of them. "Lieutenant Tao, please take Mr. Goldman downstairs and see that he makes it all the way outside. Thank you."

With that the chief went into her office, shut the door, closed the blinds, and pretended she couldn't hear the raised voices of her subordinates squabbling.

Goldman was worse than a dog with a bone. And Brenda was the bone.

There was no reason to call Gavin. That would be over-reacting. If she allowed Goldman to make her nervous, he'd succeeded. Besides, she could no longer _afford_ Gavin.

The boys had stopped arguing, at least for now. Brenda sighed and rubbed at her temples, looking around her empty office. Were they really going to fall for Goldman's divisive tactics again? They were detectives, for heaven's sake; they ought to know better. Automatically she reached for the candy drawer and drew it open, barely glancing at the contents as she allowed her fingers to make a random selection.

At the first bite of what turned out to be a Milky Way she began to feel better, because she knew what to do first. She'd just call Captain Raydor up in FID, and –

"Shit," Brenda swore aloud, unusually for her, and her face fell. The flaw in that fledgling plan was glaringly obvious. Never in a million years would the chief have thought she'd miss the presence of that woman and her notebook and her clicky-clacky little shoes.

She picked up her desk phone and dialed Will's extension. "That Goldman's been here again," she said without preamble when she got him on the line.

"What do you want me to do about it, Brenda?" he responded edgily. "Short of having him arrested. This is a public building."

"Not my murder room," she returned heatedly.

"Fine. I can bar him from the murder room."

"That's it?" she demanded, working a thick strand of caramel away from her left rear molar with her tongue.

"Look, for now Goldman is a fact of life. Do not antagonize him."

After she hung up, Brenda glared at the phone and sighed. "Thank-you for bein' absolutely no help at all," she muttered. Raised voices came from the murder room – Gabriel and Sanchez this time.

It was going to be a long day.

4.

"… and he didn't even offer me any support. He just told me to put up with him!" Brenda poked listlessly at the spaghetti Bolognese on her plate.

"Are you going to eat that or just dissect it?"

She looked across the table, deep brown eyes widening. "Who are you, my daddy? And anyway, I'm eatin'. I'm just so mad."

"I noticed."

"I'm sorry." Brenda propped her elbows on the edge of the table and rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry, Fritzi. I'm just so tired of all this."

"So quit."

Brenda's lips thinned. "It seems to me like we've already had this conversation."

"Things are different now."

"Yeah, instead of being up for chief of the whole department, I'm next to being run out of town on a rail." She paused to take a half-hearted sip of her water. She wanted wine, but it had occurred to her that it probably wasn't very considerate always to be drinking in front of her husband. "I can't quit. You know that. If I just walk away now, it'll seem like an admission of guilt."

"Well," Fritz replied stolidly, taking another bite of his pasta. "Don't you like the sauce?"

"It's fine. You put olives in it again and you know I don't like olives, but it's fine. I'm not very hungry." She crumpled the bit of paper she'd been using as a napkin and dropped it beside her glass. Fritz sighed. He was doing a lot of that these days, and Brenda found it increasingly irritating. It implied that she was being difficult, a disappointment, and he got to be the long-suffering martyr-husband, without ever having to articulate any of it, so if Brenda actually brought the issue up she'd just sound like an asshole because, hey, Fritz wasn't complaining.

Fritz almost never complained. It was one of his most endearing habits, an example of his nearly endless good nature.

Damn it, sometimes she wished he'd just complain, just have at it like a normal person; and that too was selfish. Then she might not feel like such a huge disaster in the wife department. She'd be able to say, _Sure, I'm scatterbrained and I have an unhealthy obsession with work, but you nag._

"So pick them out."

Brenda had nearly forgotten the subject of their conversation, her mind ricocheting between Fritz's gloom and the increasing void she felt opening up behind her at work, and stared at him blankly.

"Forget it." Fritz stood up abruptly and dumped his plate and cutlery into the sink with an unpleasant clatter. "If you don't like it, don't eat it. No olives next time."

"I don't really care if you put olives," Brenda said softly, because she felt like her husband was asking something of her and she didn't know what to give him.

When she padded into the living room a few minutes later, she found him tapping away at his laptop and watching a baseball game. He almost smiled when he saw her, and she thought,_ He looks so tired_.

"Listen, Bren," he began gently. "How about we take a vacation? You have all your time saved up. We could take a couple of weeks and go – anywhere, really. Somewhere quiet, just be alone together."

"A vacation?" Brenda exclaimed, as dismayed as if he'd suggested an amputation. "I can't just go on vacation, not now, with Goldman trying to push me out the door."

Fritz shrugged. "Major Crimes will still be there when you get back."

"No," she replied decisively. "I don't want to go on vacation."

He folded his arms and watched as she placed her glasses on her nose and flipped open a file folder. "That's it, huh? End of discussion?"

"For heaven's sake, you can't make me take a trip," Brenda retorted, exhausted and frayed by her day, her month, the last _six_ months.

"No. But you could, maybe just once, consider what I want." Fritz stood up and clicked off the TV. "I think I'm gonna go out for a while, maybe go to a meeting. I'll see you later."

Brenda read the same page of her file over three times and felt like shit, because not only was she inconsiderate, but apparently she drove her alcoholic husband to drink, or at least to want to drink, and she couldn't even concentrate.

As much as Fritz's attempts at conversation had been annoying her tonight, the house felt far too quiet and empty without his presence. Even Joel was M.I.A., uninterested in the humans now that he'd received his dinner. Brenda considered going to see if he was hiding in the dirty-clothes basket. More briefly, and because she was lonely, she considered calling her mama; but it was late on the East Coast, and Willie Ray always fretted if her Brenda Leigh didn't sound chipper and cheerful.

_Brenda Leigh_, she thought, and imagined a voice that was neither soft nor southern saying her name. _Brenda Leigh, Brenda Leigh._

The desire to pick up the phone and call Raydor was even stronger than it had been this morning. Not necessarily to talk about work – well, not just to talk about work – but to hear her smooth, calming voice, to become absorbed in listening to the idiosyncratic, precise way she enunciated, and to find out what in the world she was getting up to, since it wasn't terrorizing the LAPD. Yes, it would be nice to talk to Sharon, who – the thought was only mildly tragic – had somehow become about the closest thing to a friend Brenda had.

Fritz said she didn't consider other people's feelings, but she stopped and considered Captain Sharon Raydor's. And Raydor had made it quite clear that she didn't feel like seeing or hearing from the deputy chief any time soon.

Resolutely, Brenda turned the television back on and began to flick through the channels. Maybe she'd at least find a police procedural she could ridicule.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: In Vino Veritas**

1.

Brenda's car was parked in Sharon's driveway when Sharon got home from the grocery store, but the blonde wasn't in it. In the darkened interior of her own car, Sharon felt a smile stretching across her face before she caught herself. She wasn't supposed to be pleased to find Deputy Chief Johnson invading her well-guarded privacy yet again.

The grocery bags crinkled in muted protest as Sharon strode up to the front door, unlocked it, and passed through the kitchen only long enough to dump them unceremoniously on what was supposed to be the food preparation island and what was actually where she kept the bottles of overflow from the wine rack.

Brenda sat at the patio table, huddled inside her pale trench coat; and as the glass door scraped back she exclaimed, "Oh, you're finally home! I'm freezin' out here."

Sharon rolled her eyes at that little display of entitlement – how dare the captain not be waiting at home for Brenda Leigh to be struck by the whim to come by her house at (she consulted her watch) 8:03 on a Tuesday evening? But she only said, "I think it may be physically impossible to freeze to death in Southern California in October."

"It'll be November pretty soon." Brenda looked up at Sharon, those dark eyes huge and glistening in her pale face, and the older woman was struck by the flash of naked vulnerability there. "Can I come in? I brought wine."

"Since you brought wine," Sharon returned lightly, and opened the door wider. She told herself that she was being the bigger, better person by swallowing her irritation and inviting Brenda in; but deep down Sharon acknowledged that she wasn't annoyed, that she was pleased and concerned and a bit flattered that the chief had been hunkered down on her patio, waiting for her to get home, with what turned out to be a bottle of red zinfandel.

The tapping of two sets of heels on the tile floor caught Sharon's ear and she glanced down, quickly taking in the chief's classic black pumps. "Nice shoes," she commented.

Brenda dimpled. "Thanks. I thought you might approve."

Sharon was absurdly pleased by the idea that Brenda had considered her preferences while picking out her shoes. "Coach," she continued, unerringly retrieving the corkscrew from a drawer without having to look.

The chief shook her head, blonde waves dancing around her sharp little chin. "How do you do that?"

Sharon allowed herself a smirk. "I know a few things besides rules and regs, Brenda Leigh."

Brenda's smile widened. "Oh, good. You're not really mad at me." At the brunette's inquiringly quirked brow she elaborated, "You only call me Brenda Leigh when you're teasin'. You're not still mad."

The captain shrugged. "You were trying to help. Just don't 'help' any more." She paused. "Have you eaten?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. No." Brenda gratefully accepted the glass of wine Sharon handed her. "But I'm not really hungry. Just keep pourin'."

"That good, huh?" She bent down, grabbed a cutting board, and waved the chief toward one of the stools on the other side of the island. After a slight hesitation she removed the gouda and brie from the grocery bags, and popped the block of cheddar into the fridge. As Sharon began to slice, Brenda propped her elbows on the island and slumped forward, clearly dejected.

"Sharon, I don't know what to do."

Those incredible green eyes widened very slightly as the captain considered. Brenda had actually come to her for help? She slowly chewed a sliver of gouda before asking, "About what?"

"About anything." The blonde punctuated the statement with a gulp of the wine and a bitter smile. "Goldman's back and I feel like Will's hangin' me out to dry and I can't afford Gavin –"

Of course it was about work. What else would it be?

" – and _you're_ not there, and you're right, I know, there has to be a leak, but I don't know who it is, and I don't know who I can trust, and –"

"Whoa." Cheese knife still in her right hand, Sharon signaled for a time-out as if she were refereeing. "You've stretched that sentence beyond all bounds of grammatical coherence. Take a breath. You're worried about not being able to trust your squad. Who are you absolutely certain you can trust?"

The chief snorted. "My mama and daddy."

Sharon's lips quirked. "Perhaps of limited utility in this situation, but important nevertheless. Who else?"

"Fritz."

Dark hair glimmered under the kitchen lights as Sharon nodded quickly. "Your husband, of course." Brenda was being deliberately obtuse, but Sharon was willing to play along, at least for the moment. "And at work, chief?"

Brenda's lips opened automatically to form the name that had been at the top of her list for so long; Sharon practically heard the "w" sound. But the younger woman never pronounced it. Instead she closed her mouth and gazed at Sharon, looking more distressed than the FID captain had ever seen her before, even after that ugly and ill-timed scene with Goldman in the middle of her "victory" party. Sharon understood what it was like to contemplate the possibility of betrayal by someone you trusted, admired, even loved.

"You," the chief finally said, sounding forlorn. "I trust _you_, captain, but you're not there."

"No, but I'll be back." Sharon's lips thinned. "Eventually," she qualified grimly. "But I'm here now. How can I help, chief?"

"No." Brenda suddenly grabbed her hand, the one wielding the knife, which wasn't a particularly smart or safe move. "Brenda. I'm Brenda. And I didn't come to get drunk with the head of FID."

Sharon smiled slightly. "Is that what you want to do, get drunk?"

"Don't you?" Brenda replied flatly.

The captain cocked her head. "All things considered, it _is_ probably the best course of action."

2.

Neither of the women was a cheap date, but they both applied themselves to the wine with diligence, and neither had eaten a proper dinner, unless you counted cheese and crackers and a handful of grapes. Within an hour the smaller of the two women was well and truly plastered, and Sharon herself felt pleasantly loose-limbed as she reclined into the deep sofa cushions. They hadn't even been talking of work, or really of much of anything, when Brenda abruptly asked, "Hey, why the police?"

Sharon blinked slowly. "By the time I finished school I'd realized I didn't want to practice. It seemed like a natural transition."

Brenda gaped. "You're a _doctor_?"

Sharon snickered. "A lawyer, Brenda. Or at least I almost was. I never took the bar – made my father apoplectic with rage."

The chief guffawed as if this was the funniest joke she'd heard in recent memory. "A lawyer! Oh, captain, you make so much more sense now."

Sharon rolled her eyes ceilingward. "Oh, yes, sensible Sharon."

"I didn't mean it that way. Well, I sort of did." The blonde shifted, readjusting the throw pillow at the base of her spine. "I mean, at work you're so predictable. I always know you're going to show up at the worst possible time with your rules and your questions and your perfect little outfits and your pushy, 'I-must-go-first' attitude –"

"_I'm_ pushy?" Sharon interrupted.

"Of course you are; I didn't say I wasn't. Don't interrupt a superior officer. – But there's a lot more to you than that, isn't there? You're not so predictable, Sharon Raydor."

Sharon lifted her wine glass to her lips and drank deeply, pleasantly warmed by the liquid and the thought that Brenda thought there was "more" to her than the Wicked Witch of I.A. Most people didn't. But then, whose fault – whose preference – was that? "We need another bottle," she said, hoisting herself to her feet, which required some effort.

"Yes, we do," Brenda agreed enthusiastically, stumbling slightly as she scrambled to a standing position and trailed Sharon back to the kitchen. "You got any cigarettes?"

Sharon refrained from pointing out that Brenda was of legal age and could buy her own. She removed the small red and white packet from a utility drawer and handed it over along with a lighter. "We have to go outside, though," she cautioned. "I don't smoke in the house."

Brenda's forehead wrinkled. "But it's your house."

"Exactly, and I don't want it to smell like an ashtray. Besides, this is not something in which I frequently indulge."

The chief raised her eyebrows as she fumbled with the locks on the sliding glass doors. "Oh no?"

"No," Sharon snorted. "It's a filthy habit. Besides, did you see my time on the five-mile at the last fitness requalification? I beat _you_, chief."

Brenda smirked as she allowed Sharon to light her cigarette. "You compared our times?"

The older woman blinked but didn't have the decency to look embarrassed. "Of course. Didn't you? – Brenda, is that what you meant when you said I'm unpredictable? You think I'm some chain-smoking barfly?"

The blonde considered her answer, studying her companion's face before she answered. Sharon looked almost disappointed, she realized. "No. For all I know you're a classically trained pianist and speak Swahili. But I was surprised to see you knockin' that whiskey back."

Sharon chuckled. "Okay," she said. "Fair enough. There might be a few other things about me you don't know."

"Oh, I'm sure there are, captain," Brenda practically purred, and Sharon looked askance. Did the younger woman have any idea how suggestive that sounded? The captain took in the sight of the blonde shivering uncontrollably and swaying slightly, and answered her own question: no, Brenda didn't, because she was hammered.

Back inside the chief kept shivering, so Sharon grabbed a blanket from the basket in the corner and tossed it to her on the sofa with a "Here. Why didn't you put your coat on?"

"You didn't have yours on," Brenda replied as if that made perfect sense. "Aren't you cold?" She patted the cushion beside her. "C'mere and share with me." The chief laughed. "Come share, _Shar_-on."

Sharon didn't even want to acknowledge the twinge of trepidation she felt before crossing the room and settling next to her uninvited but not unwelcome guest. You're being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, and forced herself to relax as Brenda's knee settled against her thigh. Brenda wasn't the first drunk woman to sit next to Raydor on this couch.

But she was the first Deputy Chief of the LAPD.

The first Brenda Leigh Johnson.

Sharon was, weakly, a little relieved when Brenda drunkenly murmured, "Hey, you wanna watch a movie or somethin'?" It made the captain magnanimous enough to let the blonde choose the film – for the first and, Sharon decided immediately, the last time, as Brenda found a channel showing, of all things, _Aladdin_. Disgusted green eyes sliced into the chief.

"What?" Brenda asked with the placidity of inebriation. "You were hopin' for _Doctor Zhivago_? It's late and I'm drunk. Besides, you have Disney princess hair."

"I what?" the older woman demanded scathingly, thinking that she'd much rather remain the Wicked Witch.

"Sure." Brenda reached out as if Sharon were a life-sized doll rather than an actual human being and began to toy with her long dark locks, running her fingers through them, fluffing them, arranging them. "That shoulda been my first clue, you know."

"What?" Sharon asked, distracted by the sensation of Brenda playing with her hair, her nails lightly raking over Sharon's scalp.

"It's so soft and thick," Brenda continued, apparently fascinated. "How do you keep it lookin' so perfect at crime scenes and everything? Do you duck around the corner and brush it?"

Sharon smirked at the thought. "Of course, chief," she affirmed facetiously.

"Really, though." Brenda stared as she coiled a thick strand around her index finger. "I think it's one a' the things that made me hate you on sight."

"My _hair_?" Raydor squawked. "That's a first."

Brenda shook her head adamantly as she idly began sectioning part of the thick layers that framed the other woman's face. "I bet it's not. One of the cheerleaders at my high school had hair like this, and I hated her. Mine was a kinky, frizzy mess until I finally learned how to style it. Were you a cheerleader?"

"No," Sharon retorted stiffly. "Chief. Are you actually braiding my hair?"

Brenda hummed. "You were so by-the-book, so hell-bent on protocol, but you had all this gorgeous, luscious, perfect hair. And those high heels! I should've known right away that there was more to my Captain Raydor."

Brenda's fingers tugged at Sharon's hair, not sharply enough to be uncomfortable, but just enough to make her scalp tingle. It felt nice, soothing and sensual. Sharon allowed her eyelids to droop closed for a second, lulled by the wine and Brenda's presence and her slight scent of strawberries and cream. Shouldn't she smell like chocolate? Surely she would taste of chocolate.

_Sharon, you are _drunk_._

Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed both of Brenda's wrists, firmly disengaging her fingers from her hair. "That's it, beauty parlor's closed," she said fiercely. "If you're going to force me to sit through this wretched movie, the least you can do is watch it."

(Sharon's older daughter had been obsessed with _Aladdin_, totally _obsessed_ – not with the princess but with the genie – and Sharon knew all the words to all the songs, but the chief did not need to possess that information.)

Brenda was sound asleep and snoring within ten minutes. It was kind of disgusting and kind of adorable. Sharon extricated herself from the blonde's legs, covered her with the blanket, and wandered into the kitchen. She was too wide awake for her own good.

When she heard Brenda's phone ringing for the third time from the depths of that hideous purse, Sharon got up and retrieved it, her hands voyaging among candy wrappers, crumpled bank statements, hand lotion, and the chief's service weapon. Brenda had missed three calls and received four text messages. The most recent popped up automatically on the screen – Didn't Brenda even know how to lock her phone?

_Honey, I'm worried. Where are you? Please call me._

_Oh, Brenda_, Sharon thought, rolling her eyes and contemplating her options. _Brenda Leigh, you inconsiderate bitch. _

She should wake the chief up and make her call her husband.

On the other hand, what the hell did she care whether Brenda called Fritz or not? It didn't concern Sharon.

On the other other hand (and now Sharon had acquired an extra appendage), it was the middle of the night and Agent Howard, a colleague and a perfectly nice man, was fretting over the whereabouts of his wife, a certain deputy chief, and if an FBI search party showed up at the captain's front door, that _would_ concern Sharon.

Brenda made a soft snuffling sound and burrowed more deeply into the sofa cushions.

Still holding Brenda's phone, Sharon retreated to the kitchen.

Fritz answered on the second ring in a transparent effort not to seem overly anxious. If failed, of course, but, Sharon thought with a pang of half-contemptuous pity, it wasn't quite as pathetic as snatching up the phone the instant it rang. "Brenda?"

"Agent Howard, this is Sharon Raydor."

"Captain," Fritz greeted her guardedly. "Has something happened to Brenda? Has there been an accident? Is –"

"The chief is fine, agent." Sometimes Sharon was irked by the clipped, formal sound of her own brittle voice. "She's here with me, at my house. She's had a bit to drink and she's asleep now, but she's fine."

There was a long pause. "Thanks, captain – Sharon." Fritz sounded both relieved and unbearably weary. "You – Thank you for being a friend to Brenda."

"Good night, agent," Sharon said softly, and told herself that the thirty-second conversation hadn't left a bitter taste in her mouth.

In the living room she paused by the sofa and readjusted the blanket draped over the inconsiderate bitch. Then Sharon went to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Job Done Right**

1.

Brenda didn't want to have this conversation in her office with the blinds open, not that Provenza, Gabriel, and Flynn were paying any particular attention; but making the effort to close the blinds would've been too obvious. At least Lauren Meyers, the aggrieved (not grieving) widow of the dead real estate tycoon, was waiting in interview two, so Brenda had a valid reason for keeping this short and – well, sweet was unlikely.

"You didn't come home last night," she began, looking from the stapler on her desk to her husband. "Where were you?"

"Where were you the night before?" Fritz returned evenly.

"You know where I was," Brenda replied, trying to sound penitent rather than defensive and making a total hash of it. "You talked to Shar – Captain Raydor."

"Yeah, exactly." Fritz didn't even sound all that angry; he just sounded frustrated. "I had to hear it from Shar-Captain-Raydor, not from you. I'm hardly a jailer, Brenda Leigh. You couldn't at least have called?" He shook his head and cast her a woefully bewildered look. "Is that what it's come to? You'd rather get wasted with _Sharon Raydor_ than come home? Being with me is that unbearable?"

Brenda winced. "Don't be silly. It's not like that at all. I was just upset after a bad day at work, and I knew you were tired of hearin' about it. Captain Raydor knows all about bureaucracy and lawsuits; it's her job." She thought of something else. "And I wasn't 'gettin' wasted.' I'm not the alcoholic."

A muscle in Fritz's neck twitched. "No, you just drank so much that you passed out and your arch-enemy had to babysit you."

"We were watchin' a movie and I fell asleep," Brenda huffed. "This is not about your problems. And you still haven't answered me: where were you last night? Unless you're tellin' me _you _were asleep on Captain Raydor's living room sofa."

Fritz sighed. "I stayed at the office, Brenda."

She bit her lip. "You had a case?"

"No. I just didn't feel like being at home."

Her hands automatically found purchase on her hips. "To punish me. That's real mature."

"No. I just needed some time. Let's not talk about maturity, Brenda Leigh."

She shook her head, her temper spiking. "Let's not talk about any of this. I have a potential suspect waitin' for me in interview two." The chief turned, busily gathering papers from her desk. She wasn't even looking at them, didn't know if they were actually relevant to the investigation or were memos about the new parking assignments and the upcoming blood drive, but she needed an escape from this conversation before it deteriorated further. She didn't want to fight with Fritz; she hated to fight with Fritz. For someone who cheerfully courted conflict every day it work, it was startling to realize to what lengths she'd go to avoid it at home.

"Brenda –"

"We'll talk about it at home tonight." Looking over her shoulder, she tried to force a smile and felt her lip tremble. "Okay?"

"No, we need to talk about it now." Fritz readjusted his tie as if he were going into battle. "I won't be home tonight to talk about it."

Brenda's heart plummeted, a thrill of anxiety shooting through her whole body. "You're leavin'?" she managed. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. I volunteered to oversee a witness in protective custody. I'm leaving in –" He checked his watch – "half an hour. It's only for a week, maybe ten days at the outside."

"Oh," Brenda said, and her voice was high because her heart was pounding and she felt shaky, like her blood sugar had dropped and she'd pass out if she couldn't get to a Reese's cup. "Oh, you have an assignment." She was relieved, but not as relieved as she'd thought she'd be, because she felt like an idiot, and what did it say about her marriage that she'd assumed her husband was leaving _her_ when he'd only meant that he was leaving town for a few days? She tried smiling again. "Okay, honey. The house'll be quiet without you. Joel and I will miss you."

He smiled slightly, a crooked half-smile. "Yeah, I'll miss you too – both of you. But I think we could both use a little space and breathing room. Time to think."

She gave up trying to keep the anxiety from showing in her face and ringing in her voice. "Time to think about what?"

"Just time to think." Fritz framed her face in his warm, familiar hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His solemn eyes were gentle. "Now go interview your suspect, babe. I'll see you soon."

2.

"He's dead," Brenda said when Sharon answered the phone, and Sharon, unsurprisingly, responded, "What, chief? Who?"

"The man you shot."

A pause. "Oh." A second pause. "I thought he was recovering."

"Yeah, he was. Somebody killed him," Brenda said flatly.

"Somebody… other than me?"

"Unless you snuck into the hospital disguised as a young African-American male and gave him a lethal injection through his IV, then I can confidently say yes, captain, someone other than you."

Such a long silence ensued that Brenda thought the call had been dropped. "Sharon?" she asked, peering idly through the blinds into the murder room.

She heard the other woman's long, deep intake of breath. "I'll be damned."

It was such an unexpected response from the staid captain that Brenda couldn't stave off an inappropriate snort of laughter, but she sobered immediately. "Obviously someone wanted him dead, and succeeded."

"You know what they say: if you want a job done right, do it yourself."

"_Captain?_"

"My apologies, chief. This is… unexpected information."

"Yeah, well, it's also the only information we have. We have no idea who the murderer was, complicated by the fact that we still have no idea who the victim was."

"That does complicate things. I – Thank-you for the courtesy of letting me know, chief."

"Of course, captain." She hesitated. "Sharon?" she asked, as if the other woman had multiple personalities and Brenda was making a request to speak to a different one, the one whose hair she'd braided Tuesday night.

"Yes?"

"How will this affect the investigation into your use of force?"

A sigh drifted over the connection. "Honestly, I have no idea."

Brenda examined her fingernails and noticed that her nail polish was chipped, which was why she usually didn't wear nail polish. She slapped it on and forgot about it, and after five minutes it looked terrible.

"What are you up to tonight? Got plans?" she heard herself ask.

"I do, actually."

"Oh." The chief hated how disappointed she sounded. "Of course you do, it's Friday night." But there was no 'of course' about it in her mind. Her own life revolved around her work and the hectic, erratic schedule it produced; and for all the shit she gave Raydor about being nothing but a bureaucrat, Brenda knew the captain was no less likely to get summoned to a scene in the middle of the night than she was. Before Fritz, Brenda had been almost totally solitary, and she had just assumed –

"Do you like films other than Walt Disney productions?" that smooth, neutral voice cut in.

"What? Yeah. I mean, everybody likes the movies, don't they?"

"The Nuart is screening _Divorzio all'italiana_ tonight at eight. You could come along."

"Okay," Brenda agreed immediately, and cringed at how eager she sounded. It took her back to the first week of college, that brief period when she'd been so desperate to make friends and assuage the severe case of homesickness she wouldn't admit having that she'd acceded to virtually every proposal that had been made to her. Frat party? Sure. Try out for the university's production of _School for Scandal_? She had stage fright, but why not? Come sing hymns at the Christian Fellowship? Why, that was her very favorite thing to do!

The other woman hesitated, as if rethinking her spur-of-the moment invitation. "It's in black and white," she cautioned. "And Italian. It has subtitles."

Brenda glared at the phone, which wasn't as satisfying as glaring at the captain, but would do in a pinch. "Just because I'm from the South, that doesn't mean I'm completely uncultured."

"I never said it did," Sharon pointed out sweetly, and no, she'd never _said_ it. "Do you know where the theater is? On Santa Monica, west of the 405. Meet me there at 7:45. Do not be late."

"Honestly, I'm not a child. I'll be there."

"Are you coming from work?"

"Of course."

"Maybe I should come pick you up."

"I will _be_ there!" the blonde exclaimed, exasperated, and hung up.

She was on time. Mostly. Okay, she was a little late, but who counted ten minutes as really being late?

Sharon Raydor, apparently, Brenda thought, surveying the lobby of the theater with a slight sneer. No real surprise there.

Her phone vibrated. _I'm inside_, read the text. _I'll try to save you a seat_.

Brenda rolled her eyes. Oh, she'd _try_. How gracious. The blonde bought herself a ticket, a large popcorn (because she hadn't had any dinner), and a Coke, and made her way into the darkened auditorium. She stood in the aisle near the back, waiting or her eyes to adjust. She couldn't see a think by the flickering light of the previews. Great. Where was Sharon? It was bad enough that her companion for the evening was _that woman_, but it would be much worse to sit through two hours of some depressing foreign movie about divorce, of all things, by herself. When she got tired of squinting at the subtitles she could contemplate the state of her marriage.

"_Brenda_."

The voice hissing her name was so close to her elbow that she jumped, spilling her popcorn in the process, right into the lap of the person sitting on the aisle.

"Oh," she said lamely. "There you are. Can I have the aisle seat?"

"No." Sharon moved her legs so the chief could squeeze by. "And I have my own popcorn, so as much as I appreciate the gesture, you can keep yours."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

The movie turned out to be a comedy, which at least offset some of the demerits of Brenda's situation, such as the fact that she was close enough to Sharon Raydor to smell her shampoo and hear the soughing of her breath, and how once Brenda grabbed the wrong cup and drank some of Sharon's soda, which turned out not to be soda at all but some sort of fizzy apple thing, and it was good, but still, the incident was embarrassing, and she tasted Sharon's lipstick on the straw mingling with the sweet apple flavor. It was waxy and oddly sweet, sweeter than when she accidentally licked it from her own lips, and it reminded Brenda of how she used to grab her mama's lipstick-stained Dr. Pepper can and take a swig. That sort of intimacy was just one of the thousand little things that made up a daily routine for mother and daughter; in Brenda's mind, it took on an exaggerated air of impropriety between the chief and the captain.

It was the atmosphere in here, the chief thought, that was making her uncomfortable for no reason. Brenda hadn't been to the movies – or anywhere else, for that matter – on a Friday night in so long that she'd forgotten about Friday being so adamantly a date night. The two women were like a little island in a sea of couples, she thought, perhaps with some exaggeration. Couples of all shapes, sizes, colors, and gender combinations and permutations possible.

Oh, good grief. People probably thought _they _were a couple.

She was a little relieved when the lights came up.

"You enjoyed the film," Sharon said, turning to Brenda as they both gathered their coats, purses, and trash.

Brenda smiled brightly. "Yeah! I did. Yes."

The brunette pursed her lips. "You don't sound sure," she pointed out. "You were laughing."

"No, I did, Sharon." Brenda gave her companion's shoulder a little nudge to get her moving. "I just can't believe popcorn costs eight dollars. That's insane."

"It is," Raydor agreed calmly. "But when you know the price being charged for something is a gross inflation of its real value and you choose to pay it anyway, you can't complain."

Brenda snorted as they walked up the wide aisle. "You sound like an econ professor."

"No, I sound like I'm rationalizing my own choices." Sharon flashed her that sudden, rare, radiant smile, and Brenda felt a frisson of surprise. _She's so beautiful_. Then the blonde felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. It wasn't as if she'd never noticed before that the captain was what Willie Ray would've called a "pretty girl." (In fact, Brenda half-remembered that she _had_ called Sharon that, after their odd little Christmas dinner: "That Sharon's a pretty girl." To Willie Ray a woman remained a girl until the day she dropped dead, whether that happened at nineteen or ninety-five.)

Brenda smirked.

"What?"

"Not a thing, captain," she responded, her smile widening. She felt like laughing to herself, because she couldn't help dwelling on the novelty of the idea that, to all outward appearances, she and Sharon Raydor were indistinguishable from all these couples having date night. Their fellow moviegoers probably did think they were on a date, if they thought about them at all. Brenda wasn't really sure why that thought made her feel like laughing hysterically, or why she felt the sudden urge to link her arm possessively through Sharon's, to encourage people to think that maybe the two attractive women shared a condo and a cat and argued over what to have for dinner.

"What do you want to have for dinner?" Raydor asked as they stepped out into the cool, crisp evening, and Brenda blinked.

"Oh, I – I'm not really hungry," she stammered. "All that popcorn."

Sharon's lips formed a little moue and she shrugged. "All right, then. I'll see you, chief." And just like that the brunette turned and started off, presumably in the direction of her car.

Brenda immediately felt deflated, like she'd been waiting for something, she didn't know what, to happen, and it hadn't. She watched the captain walk away and thought about stepping through the front door of her quiet, empty bungalow. A puff of breeze caressed her cheek and she shivered. "Sharon!" she called. "Captain!"

And then she realized that the other woman was already in her car and couldn't hear her. Brenda took a deep breath and trotted toward the familiar vehicle, stumbling over her own feet, and tapped sharply on the driver's window.

Sharon looked up with her phone clamped to her ear beneath the cascade of her dark hair and held up one finger. The chief nodded, summoned a smile, and stepped back. The door swung open and Sharon emerged, talking to the caller, which gave Brenda a moment to think. What in the world was she going to say? "Hey, I just realized I'm hungry after all"? She'd sound like an idiot.

"It's no problem, sweetie," Sharon was saying, and Brenda was ridiculously diverted by hearing the proper FID captain use a term as frivolous as "sweetie." "Of course I understand. I'll cancel the reservation and we'll do it another time. – You too. Bye, now."

She ended the call and looked expectantly at the younger woman.

"Change of plans?" Brenda asked brightly, and Sharon just eyed her.

"I – I wanted to say thank-you, captain. For invitin' me tonight." Her voice softened, took on more sincerity. "I had a good time."

Sharon smirked. "I'm glad, chief," she murmured – there was that "chief" again – and Brenda was sure Sharon was picking up on her sudden awkwardness, but the blonde had just realized how much it sounded like she was saying good-night at the end of a first date, and she felt as out of her element as a shy schoolgirl. "Otherwise I would've just been sittin' at home by myself, eatin' ice cream and broodin' over this Goldman business."

Sharon's brow lifted. "Oh, is Agent Howard –"

"On assignment. Yeah." Brenda shifted her weight. She didn't want to go home. Maybe she could suggest they get a coffee. But Raydor was probably one of those people who never drank coffee in the evening because they insisted it would keep them up all night.

The older woman's expression softened. "You know, if you're interested, I have a brunch reservation for two Sunday at Clune. You have to book two months in advance. I was going to cancel, but –" She shrugged.

Brenda sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, I don't know."

"It was just a thought." Sharon turned back toward her car and Brenda felt like stomping her foot, and then wondered what in the world she was waiting for – For the captain to try and convince her? To insist? That obviously wasn't going to happen.

Without thinking, she grabbed Raydor's elbow. "I just eamt I might have to work."

Sharon pursed her lips, drawing Brenda's attention to the movement of her mouth. "I'm perfectly aware of that," she pointed out with the barest trace of humor.

"But if I don't – I mean, I don't even remember the last time I went out to brunch. It'd be fun." The blonde dimpled as she smiled.

Her response was that single, decisive nod. "I'll send you the details. Good night, chief."

"Night, captain."

Brenda was halfway back to her own car when Sharon's voice rang out: "Brenda Leigh!" She turned back to find the older woman smirking at her, the expression clearly visible in the glow of a streetlight. "Have you ever been to Clune?" Blonde waves danced as the chief shook her head. "I didn't think so. Wear something _nice_."

Brenda turned back toward her car. The nerve. Even when she was being nice Sharon was still kind of a bitch. "Yankee," she muttered under her breath with great satisfaction.

Still, the bungalow didn't feel quite so desolate when Brenda got back to it, not now that she had something to do this weekend other than sit around and hope somebody important got murdered.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: A Minor Inconvenience**

1. Thursday

Sharon Raydor had a problem. Actually, like most run-of-the-mill mortals, she had a few. But this particular problem –

Wasn't really a problem, she decided, glancing over at the blonde walking beside her in the fading daylight. A glorious sunset blazed to the west, lighting Brenda's unruly curls in an impressionistic halo of pink and orange befitting her sheer energy and determination. The younger woman was so unapologetically alive – and Sharon was alive too, she reminded herself.

And Sharon's problem wasn't a problem at all; to dignify it with that name gave it too much weight. It was a minor inconvenience, just one of those little divots in the road of life.

"And it's really like Indian? You promise?"

"It's similar," Sharon responded, opening the door of the small, unassuming Sri Lankan restaurant housed in a generic strip mall and gesturing Brenda inside. Appetizing scents of curry powder, roasting meat, and coconut rolled over the two women in a wave, and the deputy chief smiled, reassured.

And there was that minor inconvenience again. Sharon fought the urge to smile in return and mastered it, but she knew Brenda had seen how her lips twitched.

When Sharon didn't feel like strangling her, Brenda Leigh made her smile. Sometimes she made Sharon feel like doing both simultaneously, which was a little kinky.

The smiling thing wasn't so bad. The blonde looked so pleased whenever she made the captain smile, as if she'd just been rewarded for good behavior, the same way Sharon's children had earned stickers while they were being potty-trained. It was endearing.

The problem – the inconvenience – stemmed from the other things that accompanied the smiling: the quiver in Sharon's stomach; the zing of electricity racing up her arm almost painfully as if her blood had suddenly caught fire; the way she thought about ridiculous things like how Brenda's hair looked in the glow of the setting sun.

Captain Raydor hadn't gotten where she was in life by stumbling through it wearing willful blinders, particularly when it came to self-assessment. At 53, she thought she saw herself fairly accurately; it was a point of some pride. So realizing that she was attracted to the impossible Brenda Leigh Johnson had come as nothing like a revelation or an epiphany. It had been there, fizzing away in the background and doing no damage, from nearly their first antagonistic encounter. This made sense to Sharon. The things that made her want to shoot the other woman between the eyes with her service weapon were the same facets of Brenda's personality that drew Sharon to her, because here was a worthy and willing adversary. And friction, whatever the source, struck sparks.

This hadn't bothered Sharon. It just meant that at the odd moment, during their most heated arguments, she felt a secret little thrill like the feeling you get at the top of a rollercoaster, in the instant before that first free-fall.

She wasn't sure when she had begun, albeit reluctantly, to admire and then actually to like the chief; but that had bothered her much more than the simple chemical, physical attraction.

But it wasn't until Sunday at brunch when the older woman had come to appreciate just how – inconvenient – the combination of the two elements, attraction and affection, could be. They'd drunk mimosas along with their coffee, and as Sharon delicately approached her poached eggs with spinach, Brenda – lovely and appropriate in her sleeveless navy dress and red heels – had attacked her banana and Nutella French toast with nearly orgasmic glee. Just as Sharon was gasping out her horror that Brenda had topped the whole concoction off with syrup, the blonde had looked up at her with a twinkle in her eye and a smear of chocolate on her upper lip, and that was when it had happened. Sharon's first instinct had been to lean over and lick the smudge away.

She hadn't; but it had taken at least two full seconds for higher brain function to kick in and her fingers to tighten in a vise-grip on her defenseless fork. Brenda had looked mildly quizzical and, mouth still full, asked, "You wanna try it? It's delicious."

Sharon had felt herself smile tightly. "I'm sure it is," she'd answered in that neutral monotone. "But no, thank you."

_No, thank you._

Monday night they'd risked going out for drinks again, and no shots were fired; Wednesday Brenda had shown up at Sharon's door practically staggering under the weight of Chinese take-out; and now here they were, sitting across the table from each other while Sharon explained the menu.

"We could just get it to go," the captain said suddenly, interrupting herself. "We're close to your house, chief." Because that would be preferable, Sharon thought, to suffering through an entire meal here. When had they painted the walls a soft rose and put in cozy banquettes? And they certainly hadn't had softly flickering mood lighting the last time she'd been here. Sharon distinctly remembered buzzing fluorescent lights and stark white walls; they were a big part of the reason she'd chosen this place (which also had more-than-respectable food). At Brenda's house they would be surrounded by all the trappings of the deputy chief's normal daily life with Agent Howard. That was bound to be a huge turn-off, at least for someone like Sharon, who firmly believed marriage vows meant something. Her own hadn't worked out, but she and David had certainly given it the old college try.

Brenda's eyes widened. "Oh," she said with a slight hint of petulance, "do you need to go?"

_Say yes_, Raydor instructed herself.

"No."

"Oh, good." The blonde smiled as she went back to perusing the menu. "Fritzi doesn't really like to eat out, so we do takeout all the time. It's nice to have somebody to eat with in a restaurant."

Sharon smirked faintly. _Yeah, that's me, the husband substitute_, she thought self-deprecatingly. _Story of my life_. And then she rolled her eyes. She was a native Californian; she'd come of age in the freewheeling seventies. In her fifty-plus years on the planet she'd dated plenty of women and men who dated women and men; she'd dated women who only dated women; she'd dated men who only dated women. For extremely obvious reasons, she had no experience with women who were only interested in men.

So what the hell was she doing thinking this way about a heterosexual Baptist from Georgia, someone she not only had to work with but frequently wanted to murder? It was as if she'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in some low-budget indie movie about same-sex relationships with a script penned by a middle-aged straight guy who lived with his mother and thought it was appropriate to use terms like "girl-on-girl action." Sharon was damned if she'd be some one-dimensional caricature mooning over a straight-as-an-arrow married superior officer.

Although sometimes the way Brenda looked at her was decidedly not straight-as-an-arrow. The way she was looking at her now, for instance, bathed in the glow of the candlelight that flickered over both of them. Unless she was carefully scrutinizing the neckline of Sharon's sweater to determine its composition (cashmere, of course), which didn't seem likely.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," the captain muttered under her breath, and then laughed aloud, because she knew it was best to laugh often at oneself.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm great," Sharon replied carelessly, waving the blonde's concern away. "Do you want wine?"

"Oh, yes. You wanna share an appetizer? What's good?"

Brenda didn't know it yet, but Sharon had decided this night was the last hurrah of their whirlwind friendship, such as it was. She imagined herself turning to Brenda over mango sorbet and saying, "Listen, it's not me; it's you. I need space. We should take a break."

The image made Sharon snort with laughter, in part because she knew she'd never follow through - she seldom did what she should when it came to the deputy chief - and Brenda put her menu down once and for all. "You know, Sharon, you're actin' kinda strange."

Sharon merely smirked. _Thank you, Deputy Chief Obvious._

"What's wrong with this one?" Kate had asked on the phone this afternoon.

"Which one?"

"Stop. This Brenda person."

"Oh, plenty, but it doesn't matter. She's not – I'm not sure I'd even call us friends, really. We work together." No, they weren't exactly friends, were they? And they certainly weren't enemies any longer. Attempting to define their relationship might, Sharon fretted, make it mean something it shouldn't mean. Maybe that was what was really keeping her up at night, even more than the constant anxiety over Commander Taylor's stupid use-of-force investigation.

"Sharon."

"And I use the term 'together' very loosely."

"Mhmm. Married?"

"Not that it's remotely relevant, but yes."

"To a man?"

"Again, not that –"

"Yeah, you're doing it again. Will you never learn? What are you doing right now, right this minute?"

"I'm baking a cake."

"What kind?"

"Chocolate carrot cake."

"The kids are home?"

"No."

"Oh, Sharon – you're baking her a _cake_?"

"I'm not!" she'd protested peevishly. "I haven't made one of these in years, and I just had a craving."

"Oh, I bet you did. That's it. I'm coming over, and we're going out."

"I have plans."

"With Bren-da?" Kate sing-songed.

Sharon only sighed and peered at the cake in the oven. Her mother had never had to open the oven door to check the progress of her cakes, but her middle child hadn't mastered that skill and wasn't particularly bothered.

"Tomorrow, then. No ifs, ands, or buts. And if you say you're busy, I swear to God I'll come over there and stage an intervention."

She would, too; and it would be not only wholly unnecessary but hugely embarrassing.

As far as her – Sharon curled her lip distastefully – relationship with Brenda went, Kate was wrong about almost everything, but she was right that Sharon needed to stop spending so much of her free time with the chief… Which would be a lot easier if she had anything other than free time, she acknowledged, twisting her napkin between her fists and cursing Russell Taylor and the mysterious John Doe who was currently cooling his heels down at the city morgue.

Sharon needed a hobby.

Or a pet.

Or a new vibrator.

She smirked at Brenda across the snowy expanse of linen separating them, feeling a little sick at her stomach. It was going to be a long night.

2. Friday

Brenda Leigh Johnson had a problem. Actually, like most run-of-the-mill mortals, she had a few.

But this particular problem involved a horrendous day, a pounding headache, and the fact that she was sitting in her car in Sharon Raydor's driveway at 10:23 at night, uninvited and unannounced, having come to seek comfort in the only place she could think of, trying to convince herself both that Sharon's slightly stilted manner when they'd parted company last night didn't mean the older woman was sick of her and that the comfort the chief was seeking didn't bear any relation to the perfect, perfect swoop of Sharon's hair or the way her skin crinkled when she smiled or how intensely green her eyes had been by the candlelight of the restaurant last night, because that was absurd, it was all absurd, and everything was going wrong and Brenda was cracking under the pressure.

At any rate, she couldn't sit in her car forever, parked here behind the unfamiliar gray Lexus that was parked behind Sharon's car.

Sharon had company. Brenda should leave.

Brenda didn't want to leave. She did not want to go back to her hungry cat and her empty house and her own unsatisfactory company.

And she couldn't just sit in her car indefinitely; her ass was going numb.

Selfishness won out. She was prepared when the captain's front door finally opened. Or at least she thought she was, until she took in the woman's bare legs peeking from beneath the hem of a short, pale blue silk robe, and her tousled hair. Somehow Brenda doubted she'd been sleeping at 10:23 on a Friday night. She stared, the forgotten bottle of wine she'd brought dangling between her fingers.

"Chief?" Sharon prodded. "Brenda?"

Before Brenda could think of anything to say, a voice from inside the house asked "Sharon?" and a tall, sleek redhead appeared, her fingers lightly touching Raydor's waist.

Brenda felt her eyes widen.

"Are you all right?" Sharon asked Brenda.

"Yes! Yeah. I – ah, I –"

The other woman murmured something in Sharon's ear – it sounded like "Is that her?" – and Sharon shot her a warning look. Then, after a few seconds of a stand-off, Sharon nodded and sighed. "Come in," she said. "This is Kate, and she was just leaving."

"And you are -?" Kate asked.

"Brenda," Sharon supplied before Brenda could speak. "Come in," she repeated, gesturing rather imperatively.

Kate eyed Sharon meaningfully. "Call me," she said. Brenda averted her eyes as Kate lightly kissed Raydor on the lips, and then the chief felt utterly foolish. Kate's wedge heels clattered on the porch steps as she descended, and Brenda forced her eyes back to Sharon's, at a loss.

"I'm sorry for interruptin'."

"You didn't." Sharon walked toward the kitchen and Brenda followed because she didn't know what else to do.

"I didn't know you were… busy," the blonde continued apologetically. "I should've called first."

"It's fine, Brenda." Sharon placed something on the counter and Brenda realized it was a corkscrew. "Merlot?"

Brenda glanced at the bottle as if she didn't know what it was, as if she hadn't just stopped at the liquor store and bought it. "No, it's cabernet. You drink cabernet."

"I do," Sharon affirmed, and shot the chief a small smile from behind the curtain of her hair. She turned, taking two glasses down from the cabinet behind her.

"I'm sorry for just showin' up."

"It's not a problem." The brunette glanced up as she expertly maneuvered the corkscrew. "Unless, of course, you're here because, for some obscure reason, you've decided to feel sorry for me again.

"No, " Brenda admitted flatly, distracted from thoughts of Sharon and Kate and what they'd been doing before the chief had arrived that entailed Sharon being clad in a slinky little robe. Although Sharon really didn't seem very annoyed, not nearly as annoyed as she got when Brenda forgot to initial some silly form. Maybe they'd been… finished? "I'm too busy feelin' sorry for myself. Is she your girlfriend? Kate?"

Her lips did that twitching thing before Sharon compressed them into a line, and then, as if rethinking, she just smiled. "No. Kate is a friend."

"Oh." Brenda watched as the other woman effortlessly poured precisely equal glasses of wine and nudged one toward her. The chief fidgeted with the stem of her glass, watching her companion out of the corner of her eye. She didn't miss the way those green eyes sparkled.

"Go on and ask," Sharon said finally. "I know you're dying to."

"Well then, why make me ask? Why don't you just tell me if you know what I want to know?" Brenda retorted childishly and rather nonsensically, but she never liked being bested in the arena of interrogation.

"Uh-uh." Sharon turned, opened the door of the stainless-steel refrigerator, and peered inside. "That would make it way too easy on you."

"You're enjoying this," Brenda groused.

Sharon bent to retrieve something from one of the lower shelves, and Brenda would have had to be blind not to have noticed the way the silky robe rode up in back, revealing a scandalous amount of firm, toned thigh. Captain Raydor, Brenda admitted to herself, had the best legs in the LAPD bar none. She should wear skirts more often. But then, maybe she'd grown tired of being ogled by the likes of Flynn and Provenza… and Brenda.

The object of Brenda's scrutiny had returned to a fully upright position and was placing what was unmistakably a cake plate in front of the deputy chief. She removed the lid, revealing something covered in delectable chocolate frosting, and asked, "Would you like a piece?" just as Brenda blurted, "Are you a lesbian?" so together it sounded as if they'd asked, "Would you like a piece [of] lesbian?"

Their eyes met. Brenda flushed. Sharon's brows arched, and the chief waited to be told it was none of her business, which it wasn't.

Instead Raydor shrugged matter-of-factly. "No, I'm not. I've dated women. I date women. And sometimes men." She cocked her head musingly, as if pondering that. "Mostly women," she elaborated, and then nodded once, decisively.

"Oh," said Brenda, who was oh-so-thankful that she was at least savvy enough to understand that dating "mostly women" didn't make you a lesbian, necessarily, although she wasn't sure exactly what it did make you.

"The term I prefer is pan-sexual," Sharon said, calmly slicing two chunks of the cake, having taken Brenda's acceptance of dessert as a given. It was slightly terrifying how often the captain seemed to read her mind; Brenda would have to remember that the next time they ended up working together – once Taylor finished his interminable investigation into absolutely nothing. She made a mental note to ask Sharon what was going on with that even as the older woman elaborated, "Essentially it just means gender is not high on the list of criteria that determine whether or not I'm attracted to someone."

"Well, that seems imminently civilized," Brenda returned equably, and Sharon smirked as she licked a dab of frosting from her thumb.

The look the captain gave the chief as she handed over one of the pieces of cake on a bright blue plate was unreadable, but certainly contained both mischief and amusement. "Oh, certainly. I'm very civilized." Coming around to the other side of the island where Brenda sat, Sharon lightly tapped her knee with her free hand. "Let's take this into the living room."

"Hey!" Brenda exclaimed, her eyes widening in indignation as she followed. "Your piece is a whole lot bigger than mine. You gave me a little-bitty tiny one."

She didn't have to see Sharon's face to know the smirk was in place; Brenda could hear it in her voice. "If you like it, you can have more."

Brenda found herself studying the languid sway of the captain's hips. She moved so gracefully, whether in her heels or, like now, with bare feet. She was a bit taller than Brenda, yet Brenda was the one who sometimes appeared awkward and gangly. The chief smiled slightly to herself, trying to remember if this was how she'd felt about the really popular girls in high school, the cheerleaders and majorettes with their shiny perfect hair and ample bosoms (both of which Sharon certainly had). But she knew it wasn't. There had been jealousy then, sometimes envy, sometimes even malice. Captain Sharon Raydor instead filled Brenda with a sort of pleased, proud admiration just because she was who she was and she made everything look so easy, from mirandizing a suspect to, apparently, baking a cake.

Tonight it was hard to remember why she was supposed to hate Raydor.

"Brenda?"

"Hmm?" the blonde murmured, deep in thought. And then she realized two things: she was standing stock-still in the middle of Sharon's living room, and she'd just been caught staring at Sharon's ass.

Well, it was just out there on _display_, for heaven's sake. That robe didn't leave much to the imagination. An awful thought struck Brenda, and she felt her chest flush with heat. What if Sharon was naked under the robe?

"I forgot my wine," the captain said. "Do you need anything?"

Brenda shook her head, and if Sharon noticed the eagle-eyed way her guest was scrutinizing the flex and shimmer of the silk fabric hugging her curves, she had the good grace not to mention it.

So Kate wasn't Sharon's girlfriend… unless, of course, she was. But no, why would Raydor lie about that? Did she have a girlfriend? Girlfriends? A boyfriend? Brenda frowned, her forehead crinkling. She'd spent more time with Sharon Raydor in the last few weeks than she had in the previous few years, but she still didn't really know much about her.

"Tell me about your kids," Brenda said suddenly as Sharon re-entered the room, and the older woman fixed her with a long, level look.

"Brenda. You did not come over here with a bottle of wine and a hang-dog expression to talk about my ex-girlfriend and my children."

Ah, ex-girlfriend; that was interesting.

Brenda wanted to protest, mainly because she hated being so transparent, but where was the use? "Today was just awful," she admitted. "We still don't have an investigation, so the boys are bein' farmed out to help Robbery/Homicide, so Commander Taylor's all puffed up like he's everybody's boss; and I'm just stuck doin' paperwork, and that Goldman keeps showin' up for no apparent reason, and Will's as jumpy as a cat, and then somebody broke into my house –"

"Wait, what?" Sharon's fork fell to her cake plate with a resounding clatter. "Brenda, someone broke into your house? When? Who? What was taken? How did –"

Brenda waved the litany of questions away, the sound of Sharon's fork having reminded her of her own neglected piece of cake. "Oh, it's all just a bunch of fuss over nothin'. When I got home tonight, the side door was open. Somebody smashed a window at the back, stole a handful of electronics and my grandmother's costume jewelry, and went out the side. The boys are just makin' a mountain out of a molehill," she huffed. "This cake is delicious, Sharon."

"Thank you. I'm sorry about your grandmother's jewelry."

Brenda looked down at the cake. Chocolate, ginger, cinnamon, and something else, something chewy – it shouldn't have worked but it did, and left a tingly sort of zest at the tip of her tongue. "It wasn't valuable."

Sharon hummed. "Monetarily – but that doesn't matter, does it?"

Dark brown eyes met soft green ones, and for a second, mixed with a warm rush of gratitude, Brenda Leigh felt a flood of incredulity at the fact that she was sitting here telling her woes to Captain Sharon Raydor, who was not only being a sympathetic listener but who was also plying her with cake. This was a much more diverting thought than dwelling on the jewelry, the one part of the burglary that really did upset her, and Brenda grinned. "Who'd a' thought?" she asked suddenly.

Sharon's eyes widened inquisitively before she caught on, and then she smiled, and that something Brenda couldn't quite read was back in her eyes. "Indeed – who would've thought?" The blonde watched as she carefully, neatly licked the last vestiges of crumbs from her fork. "Your squad is concerned because this burglary suggests that perhaps the attempted mugging was not a random, isolated incident – particularly when coupled with the murder of the assailant – but that you are being targeted."

She spoke in that meticulous, precise Captain Raydor way she had – it was, Brenda had realized, slightly different from just-plain-Sharon's normal speaking voice, just as Brenda had her chief voice – and even as it needled Brenda, she realized she'd missed hearing it. Good Lord had she missed hearing it.

"I gather that you disagree."

"Of course I disagree." Brenda shoved a huge bite of cake, two thirds of her miniscule piece, into her mouth and continued talking around it. "Or if I am, I'm bein' targeted by the world's dumbest criminals. A botched mugging and a petty theft?"

Sharon hummed, which wasn't an answer, and Brenda swallowed a generous mouthful of the cabernet. It wasn't merlot, but it wasn't bad. She could get used to it. "Can I have more cake?"

"Help yourself."

After cutting herself a more reasonably sized ration of cake, Brenda returned to the large, cozy living room and saw that Sharon had moved from one end of the couch to the overstuffed armchair opposite. The chief, who had built a career on automatically analyzing every tiny detail of human behavior when it came to crime, and who spent little time analyzing anything in her own daily life, wondered why the other woman had moved. To put more distance between them? But why? They'd sat next to each other on that sofa, which was much more comfortable than Brenda's, for most of the last week. Of course, Sharon hadn't been wearing nothing but her silly little robe, and Brenda hadn't just interrupted her and her supposedly-ex-girlfriend doing… things. The thought of those things made Brenda flush scarlet, as if Sharon could read her mind, and she stabbed vengefully at the cake.

"I've never had cake like this before," she commented. "What kind is it?"

"Chocolate carrot cake." At the chief's expression, Sharon grinned her rare grin. "I know. It sounds revolting. But my children liked it when they were small, so I thought you'd approve."

Brenda chose to ignore the insult to her culinary discernment. "You baked me a cake?"

A frown replaced the grin. "Of course not," the captain replied more sharply than Brenda thought was strictly necessary. "But you have been dropping by rather frequently."

Brenda considered. That sounded an awful lot like the captain had baked her a cake. "But you don't like to cook."

As Sharon shrugged, a hank of her long, thick hair tumbled over her shoulder. In the dim light it looked black. "I like to bake sometimes, but baking for one is a dangerous hobby."

Brenda smiled sweetly. "You can bake for me any time you like."

"Gee, thanks. – About this burglary –"

"Sharon, I'm sick to death of talkin' about it!"

"What does Agent Howard think?"

"I haven't told him." That made Brenda feel a little guilty, which was ridiculous. "It's not like I can just call him up."

"And the locks –"

"Detective Gabriel found me a twenty-four-hour locksmith, and somebody's coming in the mornin' to replace the windows. Will insisted on posting a guard," she elaborated, heading off the next question. "I finally agreed to go to a hotel for the night, just to shut him up."

"But you didn't," Sharon pointed out.

"Well, no." Brenda bit her lip. "I was kind of wondering if, ah, maybe –"

"Yes, you can stay here," the other woman interrupted smoothly, getting to her feet. "I don't have a spa or turn-down service, but I do have clean linens and plenty of hot water."

Brenda smiled, more relieved than she'd realized she'd be. "Thank you, Sharon."

"Okay, Brenda," Sharon replied in that awkward, stilted way she sometimes had, and turned toward the stairs. "Do you have an overnight bag?" When Brenda nodded she continued, "Go get it. I'll make the guest room up for you."

When the deputy chief returned with the random assortment of clothing and toiletries she had hastily tossed into the gym bag she never used for going to the gym, she followed the golden light spilling down the stairs up to the second floor – virgin territory to her. The third door on the right stood open, revealing the source of the light. Sharon glanced up as she smoothed the second pillow into place, and Brenda marveled again at her efficiency.

"There are towels for you in the bathroom, and extra blankets there." Sharon indicated a wooden chest beneath one of the windows that flanked an old-fashioned armoir. "Make yourself at home, but please don't incinerate my kitchen. I wouldn't mind if you made coffee; just make enough," she specified as an afterthought.

Suddenly exhausted, Brenda kicked her shoes off and flopped down on the bed fully dressed. The springs creaked under her weight. She'd get up in a few minutes, change into her pajamas and brush her teeth… maybe.

"If I'm still asleep in the morning, don't wake me," Sharon added.

Brenda smirked. "Yes ma'am, captain. Anything else? Breakfast in bed?" And then, because it was true and because she wasn't ready to be left alone just yet with her thoughts, she continued, "This is a pretty room." She patted the edge of the bed just as she used to do as a child when Willie Ray tucked her in; and Sharon hesitated, but then she smiled slightly, a mysterious little smile that made her eyes look darker, and sat down, her bare knee brushing Brenda's skirt-covered hip.

"I used to sit here and tuck my daughter in," Sharon said softly, reaching out and smoothing Brenda's hair away from her cheek. "This was her room."

Brenda grinned, tilting her cheek into Sharon's soft palm. "You want to tell me a story?"

"Not a chance, Brenda Leigh. No confessions from me," Sharon replied with a smile of her own, continuing to smooth Brenda's hair and trace the vulnerable curve of her cheek. It was an intimate touch, unlike anything the two of them had shared before, but she seemed to be doing it absent-mindedly, automatically. She must've soothed her daughter like this night after night.

Sharon was not Brenda's mother, and Brenda didn't find the caress particularly soothing.

The brunette's thumb lightly brushed Brenda's soft lower lip and they both froze, their eyes locking. Brenda watched as soft green eyes flickered with awareness and Sharon drew a shaky breath.

"Do you have things to confess, Captain Raydor?" Brenda heard herself ask very softly, her lips moving against the pad of Sharon's thumb as she spoke.

Sharon leaned over her as her hand moved from Brenda's mouth to her hair to trail over her shoulder, and for a second the blonde held her breath, her pulse pounding and her eyes probably wild, waiting. Sharon Raydor was going to kiss her. Oh, God, Sharon was going to kiss her.

Sharon's lips almost brushed the shell of Brenda's ear, her warm breath tickling, causing electricity to thrill through the younger woman's body and her breath to catch. "Everyone has secrets, chief," she murmured.

And then she stood abruptly and Brenda wondered if the entire exchange had been a figment of her imagination. "Good night, Brenda." The captain's eyes raked over Brenda's prone form before returning to her face, and then she smirked very slightly. "Pleasant dreams."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Riding in Cars with Girls

Okay, so I'm not thrilled with this chapter, but I've toyed with it for a while, and I think this is as good as it's gonna get, so I'm posting it anyway. I hope Brenda and Sharon and I haven't all gone completely off the rails herein. Also, I'm generally pretty violently opposed to songfic, which this is not, but there is a song in this chapter. You have been warned, minions.

1.

Even if someone had threatened her at gunpoint, Brenda Leigh Johnson could not have explained how she made it from the Sunday school room of the First Baptist Church to this point, naked, pouring sweat, and muffling her cries against what was undoubtedly a very expensive high-quality pillow, gasping for breath as a soft, sensual body slid languorously along the curve of her spine, the lazy movement belying the fierce urgency of the hand thrusting between the blonde's spread thighs. Brenda moaned, wishing she could see those perfect, precise fingers moving so commandingly in and out of her body, faster now, harder, but the rasp of pebbled nipples against her back felt good, so the chief contented herself with whimpering desperately and clutching at the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. She'd rather have clutched handfuls of the silky, cascading dark hair that she couldn't reach but could feel brushing her own sweaty neck as her lover dipped her head and worked the long, elegant tendon at the side of Brenda's neck between her teeth.

The deputy chief ground her clit against the mattress, desperate for a touch, any touch, at that most sensitive spot, and then thrust back, grinding her ass against the other woman's crotch. She could feel the heat and tantalizing dampness and longed to be able to see and touch properly, but next time, she told herself, next time it would be her turn. Now she had to come, she had to come or she thought she'd die, and she wasn't sure she had ever needed it this badly before, but she was wailing and rocking and so close – She felt the familiar tightening that began low in her belly and tingled outward to her buttocks and thighs, she felt her whole body tense and tremble, but she needed more, just a little more to push her over the edge. She realized she was begging, "Please please please please" in a steadily rising key, and Brenda didn't beg, not during sex, not ever; oh, but finally, _finally_, one long, delicate finger slipped from inside her body and traveled up to her clit, brushing lightly for an instant before that manicured nail trailed slowly and deliberately over the unbearably sensitive head. It was so intense that it hurt, and God, there, yes, it was perfect. She thrust forward, arched back into the warmth of the body behind her, and at last, _yes yes yes –_

"Brenda? Brenda."

She realized she was sweating and shivering, the sheet tangled too tightly around her body and her own perspiration chilling her in the cool morning air. Her body hummed, tell-tale aftershocks skittering along her nerve endings as she panted against the once-crisp pillowcase, now damp from her own harsh, labored breathing. Holy _shit_. Dazed, Brenda tried to remember when the last time was that she'd actually reached orgasm from a dream, and as she wondered she realized that the low voice was real, not a figment of her imagination, and that it was accompanied by knocking, tentative but growing louder.

"Chief?"

"Yes," she gasped, jerking into a sitting position and turning, gathering the sheet and quilt protectively around her sweaty shoulders. "I'm awake. I'm awake!" she exclaimed frantically, blanching with horror as her sightless eyes fastened on butter-yellow walls. Oh, no. No no no. Had she really just…? She had. And now Sharon Raydor was a few feet away, and what if she came in? What if she'd heard? What if she could tell?

_You're being ridiculous_, Brenda told herself firmly, but she still executed a hasty crabwalk back toward the headboard when the door opened a few inches. Sharon didn't come in, but the blonde knew she was there; she could see her sleeve, knew her hand was resting on the doorknob. "What time is it?" Brenda demanded, shoving her hair back with a shaking hand.

"It's a little after seven," that low voice responded through the crack in the door.

"Seven? I thought you liked to sleep in," the blonde muttered incredulously, smoothing the covers in an effort to compose herself. "What time do you get up on a work day, four?"

"No. However – Brenda, may I come in? I'd prefer not to converse with the door."

"I'd prefer not to converse at all." It wasn't a particularly gracious sentiment given that this was the other woman's house; but it was early and Brenda's body was very confused and she was mortified by the possibility that Sharon would be able to read her thoughts on her face as easily as they both read suspects. She was definitely sweaty, almost certainly flushed, and shaking like she had been stricken with palsy.

The door swung open and Sharon propped her denim-clad hip against the jamb, her arms folded. "Look, I'm sorry to disturb you." She didn't sound sorry; she sounded irritated. "Last night you said Chief Pope encouraged you to get away for a few days. How do you feel about Santa Cruz?"

"Huh?" Brenda replied eloquently.

"Something has come up and I have to go to Santa Cruz. I want to get on the road soon because it's quite a long drive."

"Oh." Brenda stared stupidly at the other woman. There was no denying it: the shiny hair gleaming over Sharon's shoulder in a gentle wave, the undertones of chestnut and red honey clearly visible in the morning sunlight, had been the hair brushing Brenda's shoulders and tickling her neck. The breasts pressing against the fabric of the fitted blue and gold plaid shirt had been the ones cradled against Brenda's spine. And those capable hands had been the ones that had – oh, sweet Lord in heaven.

"Chief, are you listening?"

No, she was staring at Sharon's hands, but the impatience in the older woman's voice brought Brenda back to herself. Those hands, she reminded herself, hadn't actually explored the most intimate parts of her body. It had been a dream – a crazy dream – and people dreamed all sorts of outlandish things all the time. Brenda had once dreamed that she'd lost her virginity to the boy in her sophomore geometry class who smelled of mothballs and didn't wash his hair. It didn't mean anything.

"Oh, ah, sure, captain – Sharon. I can go home, or to a hotel if the windows aren't fixed – or I have some reports to file, so I could just –"

"Yes, you could do those things." Sharon inclined her chin, the shadow of a smile tugging at her lips. "But I was asking if you'd like to come with me." The instant the words left her mouth, the captain's lips tightened and her eyes widened, as if she was dismayed that she'd voiced the invitation.

The blonde's eyes widened too. "Oh," she said. _Say no, Brenda. Captain Raydor looks like she wants you to say no. She's already realized she shouldn't have asked_. "I've never been to Santa Cruz."

"Okay." Sharon nodded. "Okay," she repeated, and just for a second the awkward girl was back. In the next breath she was replaced by the efficient captain. "While you shower I'll make us some breakfast, and then we can drop by your house and pick up whatever you need." She turned away, and then turned back. "Oh, and you should probably take some time off. Monday, at least. Tuesday would be better."

Brenda blinked again. Time off? From work? That sounded suspiciously like a vacation. She never took time off.

The chief felt her head bob as she nodded, as if her body belonged to someone else. "Sure," she heard herself reply brightly. "Whatever you say, Captain."

2.

When Brenda had offered to share the driving, Sharon had merely sent her a most scathing Captain Raydor look, so Brenda contented herself with watching the traffic and the seemingly endless interstate, the music playing on the car stereo through her companion's iPod vaguely filtering into Brenda's consciousness, accompanying her thoughts with persistent guitar and a soulful female voice that was oddly pure despite its whiskey roughness.

_Take the long way home so I can ride around,  
>Put Neil Young on and turn up the sound.<br>Drive up the coastline, maybe Ventura,  
>Watch the waves make signs out on the water.<em>

_I wanna watch the ocean bend,  
>The edges of the sun, then<em>_  
>I wanna get swallowed up<br>In an ocean of love._

_Stand in the shower, clean this dirty mess,  
>Give me back my power, and drown this unholiness.<br>Lean over the toilet bowl, and throw up my confession,  
>Cleanse my soul of this hidden obsession.<em>

_I wanna watch the ocean bend,  
>The edges of the sun, then<br>I wanna get swallowed up  
>In an ocean of love.<em>

The sun was warm, her companion was quiet, and the motion of the car was steady and lulling. After they'd stopped for a  
>lunch they consumed in the car (cops are, as a rule, good at eating in cars), the blonde fell asleep, and she dreamed. She dreamed of the salt tang of the ocean on her tongue, of sweat and velvet curtains, of sweet tea the way her mama made it, and of impossibly soft lips pressed to her own. She dreamed of sunshine, of lying back against a brilliant patchwork quilt, of impossibly soft lips pressed to her own.<p>

She kept her eyes tightly squeezed shut, better to concentrate on that softness. The lips pressed light, phantom kisses to Brenda's mouth, teasing, tantalizing; but each time Brenda moved to deepen the kiss, that wonderful mouth flitted away to leave a glancing caress on her chin, her forehead, her collarbone.

The chief growled low in her throat, her eyes still closed so she wouldn't spoil the game. "Sharon," she growled warningly.

"Hmm. You okay, chief? Brenda?"

Brenda jolted to full consciousness as if Sharon had shrieked in her ear instead of speaking in her usual calm, deliberate monotone. The blonde's fingers formed claws that sank into the upholstery on either side of her body as she cried, "What? What is it?"

The brunette merely cut her eyes to the side as she smirked. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I thought you were awake."

"I'm awake," Brenda muttered obviously, resentful.

"It's just as well." Brown eyes blinked hazily as Sharon smoothly steered the car onto an exit ramp. Brenda stared vacantly at the long, low rest stop that hovered into view before them. "I don't know about you, but I could use a break."

Sharon still sounded perfectly cool, and her eyes, usually the most expressive of her features, were shielded by the lenses  
>of her sunglasses, but surely Brenda didn't imagine the quick, sharp intake of breath when Sharon absently reached for the mp3 player and instead grazed the chief's knee. The touch was barely there, a whisper lighter than the imaginary kisses, but both women froze.<p>

_Ah-hah_, Brenda thought, triumphant for the merest second until panic set in as those fumbling fingers grazed her hand.

For a crazed instant she thought the hiss and crackle that filled the car was the sound of Sharon's fingertips brushing against hers, the perfect representation of the sharp, unpleasant electric jolt that made the blonde's long fingers tingle while the rest of her body went cold in comparison. But no: the captain had brushed against the cable connecting the mp3 player to the car stereo. It must have a short, Brenda realized, turning away to hide the shaky breath that escaped her parted lips.

"Do you want anything?"

Brenda's wide gaze snapped back to her companion's face. What? No. _No!_ She didn't want anything! She was tired. She was confused. She was disoriented. She could not be held responsible for anything she might have accidentally -

The look Raydor was giving her made the chief conscious of the deer-in-the-headlights expression she had to be wearing. "They must have something chocolate and toxic in the vending machine," the older woman elaborated carefully, those green eyes narrowing. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"I don't know. No," Brenda replied edgily, feeling foolish.

Sharon nodded once, dropped her Chanel sunglasses back into place – thank God – and got out of the car.  
>Getting out of the car: that was what Brenda should do. Stretch her legs, get some air that wasn't infected by the vaguely spicy, earthy scent of Sharon Raydor.<p>

Quickly unfastening her seatbelt, Brenda bolted, slamming the door with unnecessary force and stumbling a few feet away to a sun-splashed patch of grass. What on earth was the matter with her? She was acting like a crazy person, a complete loon. Good grief, had she actually thought, if only for a second, that an offer to buy her a Snickers bar was instead a sexual proposition? From _Sharon Raydor?_

She was confused, that was all – disoriented from sleep, from that awful ludicrous dream she'd been having. What she'd seen at Sharon's last night had surprised her, that was all, and her brain was trying to process it. She hadn't suspected – no, suspected was bad; it made it sound like Brenda thought there was something wrong, like sleeping with another woman was a crime or something, and of course she didn't. She hadn't given any thought to the captain's sexual preferences. She had just assumed.

Which, she had learned in the last few weeks, was a dangerous thing to do where Sharon was concerned.  
>It was so silly to feel this way. So what if Sharon had a… friend. It didn't change anything. Brenda wasn't a bigot.<br>Not that homophobia would've explained why she felt so edgy, hyper-aware and painfully alert to the other woman's presence.

Gravel crunched and Brenda turned. The object of her thoughts held up a packet of Reese's cups. "I got you something anyway," she said with a slight smile. "Just in case."

Brenda tried to smile back in acknowledgment, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate. Because she was wide awake now, and it wasn't the enforced proximity of being jammed into the suddenly-too-small car for hours on end, because the two women were separated not only by the width of said car but by several yards of pavement and weed-riddled grass, and Sharon still looked more tempting than the candy she held.

_Oh, God_, Brenda thought, her heart pounding with that not-quite-panic again. _Oh, sweet Lord in heaven._

She couldn't see the captain's eyes behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses, which was probably a blessing. "Brenda. Are you ready to get back on the road? We'll be there in a couple of hours if the traffic isn't too horrible."

"So have you always preferred women?"

_Oh, nice segue, Brenda. Subtle_. Her own eyes widened in horror at what she had just blurted out, and she didn't need to see Sharon's now, because the slack parting of her lips told the chief what she thought of the (wholly inappropriate) question.

"That's very personal," the older woman said in that neutral tone of hers that meant the comment could be either a reproof or an observation. Brenda knew better than to push. She should let it go, drop it, accept that there were many aspects of Sharon Raydor that were none of her business.

Brenda didn't like unanswered questions.

Brenda pushed.

"Well, isn't that what friends do, talk about personal things?" As she spoke Brenda folded her arms below her breasts, which was a defensive gesture that telegraphed her insecurity, but she couldn't help it.

Sharon took all this in. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

Brenda bit her lip. "Aren't we?" she parried, hating how vulnerable she sounded, particularly since she knew those moss-colored eyes were trained on her, not missing the tiniest detail.

The other woman's lips quirked in that maddening smirk. "It's not that simple, chief."

The blonde huffed out a breath and forced her arms to her sides, where they ghosted over her denim-clad thighs. "Nothing ever is."

"No," Sharon agreed, finally pushing up those damnable sunglasses and letting her companion see the glint of amusement in her eyes. "That's the answer to your question, Brenda."

"Oh." At a loss and feeling like nothing had been answered, just more questions generated, the chief took a small step back. "Okay."

Raydor was still smirking. "Let's go, Brenda Leigh."

There it was again, that smoky, mocking note that made Brenda's stomach flip-flop. Damn it. Would Sharon Raydor never tire of devising new ways to drive her insane?

They rode in silence for a while, miles of California highway gliding smoothly behind them and still stretching before them.

"Does it matter?" Sharon asked abruptly.

Brenda caught her lower lip between her teeth and shook her head. "Not the way you mean."

The statement was even more ambiguous than the other woman's "It's not that simple," as if they were having a contest to see who could produce the most cryptic, enigmatic phrase. But Sharon didn't ask. Sharon didn't push.

Sharon always pushed. When the chief pushed, the captain returned equal force. It was one of the things Brenda could count on.

So why was she just staring out at the interstate, her classical features statue-still?

A wave of prickly heat swept over Brenda. Maybe she wasn't enigmatic after all. Maybe she was painfully transparent. More and more, the chief got the discomfiting sensation that Sharon Raydor could see right through her in a way no one else, not Fritz or Will or any of the detectives she worked with day in and day out, could.

Brenda Leigh was used to extracting confessions from other people. Had she just unintentionally made one herself?

If she had, Raydor was determined not to let on. That provided Brenda with some small measure of relief.

It wasn't until they blew past the last exit for Santa Cruz (Sharon had something of a lead foot) that the blonde demanded, "Wait, where are we going?"

"To find Claire," Sharon returned briefly without removing her eyes from the road.

Brenda waited a beat. "Who is Claire?"

This time Sharon did turn to her, briefly. "My daughter. My youngest. She's in law school here."

"Oh. It was your daughter who called you this mornin'?"

"Her roommate. Claire hasn't been home to their apartment in ten days."

Brenda felt her own irises flair in alarm. The captain's daughter had been missing for the better part of two weeks, and Sharon wasn't beside herself? Why hadn't she called the police?

The brunette glanced over at the blonde and smiled slightly. "She packed a suitcase and took her laptop, and paid her share of the rent in advance. She isn't dead in a ditch."

Even as Sharon spoke the words of easy reassurance, though, her brow furrowed, and Brenda knew the older woman was more concerned than she was letting on. Brenda considered, sliding into detective mode. "You think you know where she is."

"Yes, of course." Sharon finally switched lanes to exit. "I wouldn't have packed you into the car and driven all the way up here if I thought she'd taken off for Tijuana."

It was a fair point, and Brenda began to realize how hazy her own thinking had been all day. Her over-riding feeling had been great, sweeping relief that she had somewhere that wasn't Los Angeles to go, and that someone else had taken the decision out of her hands.

Gee, she was really acting like some kind of crack sleuth, wasn't she?

"I'm sure you're right and she's just fine."

"Not fine." Sharon stopped at a red light. "Headstrong and impulsive, yes. But she's also near the top of her class. She wouldn't just take off in the middle of the semester if everything was 'fine.'"

Brenda said nothing. She possessed a notable lack of experience in the parenting department and didn't know how to offer words of comfort that Sharon would probably repel anyway.

At least it gave her something to think about other than the terrifying tension between the two of them. Oh, there had been tension in spades between the two women from the moment they'd met, of course. Face to face in Will's old office, animosity had zinged back and forth, shooting sparks that had practically been visible to all three of them. This tension created its own sparks, but the animosity was now no more real than the Ghost of Meetings Past. The more Brenda got to know this woman – stubborn, arrogant, precise, by-the-book – the more she liked her. And she didn't think Sharon had carted her off to parts unknown purely out of pity and exasperation.

The road they were on now could be considered paved if you used the term loosely. More accurately, it had been paved once upon a time, the remnants left to form mammoth ruts where rainwater had gathered. "Jesus, we should fix this," Sharon muttered absently as they jolted along. Brenda could barely hear her over the rattling of her own teeth.

The house seemed to come upon them suddenly, instead of the other way around. At first it looked as if the rutted road ended unspectacularly in a thick grove of trees; and it was the presence of a battered gray jeep amidst that clump of trees that drew Brenda's gaze to the house. It was a low, flat structure, its weather-beaten wood and shingles making it look as if it would be more at home on a New England cape than here, hugging the Pacific in prime surfing country. Still and all, it had a homely, ramshackle appeal that put Brenda more at ease.

"Hmph," Sharon mumbled declaratively, sounding satisfied. At Brenda's inquiring look she nodded toward the jeep. "Claire's," she said briefly.

"Is this, uh – does she live here?"

Green eyes widened, as if it had just occurred to the older woman that she'd told Brenda next to nothing about where they were going or why, and yet the chief had come along gamely. "No, she has an apartment near the university. She's not quite that much of a hermit – not usually. This is my parents' beach house." Sharon removed the key from the ignition, still gazing musingly at the cottage. "It was my parents'," she qualified. "My dad signed it over to my brother and sister and me last year. But my kids and I are the only ones who ever use it."

Brenda swallowed, looking from the trees to the Jeep to the house – anywhere but at the woman next to her. Captain Sharon Raydor, the perpetual thorn in her ass. Captain Sharon Raydor, the only person inside the LAPD who she was absolutely sure she could trust. Her friend Sharon, who couldn't make sweet potato casserole and who taught her about Indian food and Italian movies. Her friend Sharon, who made Brenda grind her teeth and want to slap her, and who had starred last night in a wet dream that would've made a fifteen-year-old boy blush.

And now Brenda was here, at this isolated beach house at the end of this road to the middle of nowhere, to spend an entire weekend with the woman.

And her daughter, who was apparently having some sort of quarter-life crisis.

For heaven's sake, why had she ever thought this was a good idea?

Right. Now that it was too late, Brenda Leigh remembered why she didn't take vacations.


	10. Chapter 10

Welcome to chapter ten, a frivolous little chapter in which you should expect nothing but the expected. This whole chapter was written around a cracked-out image that wormed its way into my brain and refused to go away. I apologize in advance. Do not expect great psychological depth here.

**Chapter Ten: I am Sixteen, Going on Seventeen**

1.

Somewhere out of sight a screen door creaked and banged, and Sharon slid out of the car and stood with her elbow propped on the open door. From around the corner a pixie-ish twenty-something in ragged jeans and a huge sweatshirt that only emphasized the smallness of her frame appeared and stopped short, looking at Sharon with a fair share of trepidation. Through the canopy of leaves above, sunlight filtered through to glint off the bar lancing through her right eyebrow and the tiny ring in her nose.

"Mom," she said cautiously, rubbing one bare foot atop the other.

Sharon sized her up immediately. "Rachel isn't amused by your disappearing act, and neither am I." The captain sighed. "Are you high?"

"What?" Claire's eyes widened. "Mom! No!"

"Let me rephrase." Sharon, Brenda thought, sounded mildly distressed but hardly enraged, which was yet another surprise from Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes. Right then and there the chief resolved to stop being surprised by Raydor's surprises. "How high are you?"

"It's remotely possible that I had a few hits a little earlier."

"Uh-huh. We'll save the serious conversation." Brenda couldn't see her friend's face, but imagined Sharon's eyes narrowing. "Are you all right?"

Claire offered a one-shouldered shrug and a weak smile. "I'm all in one piece." She blinked a few times. "Uh, Mom? What are you doing here?"

"Rachel called me. She's worried."

"You could've called."

"I could have," Sharon agreed calmly. "I came instead. I'm your mother."

"Yeah, I remember you." Claire smiled again, this time more genuinely, and the chief saw a flash of Sharon in her. The girl's gaze fell on Brenda. "And who might this be?"

"Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson," Sharon replied primly, and Claire's eyes went wide, revealing all their bloodshot glory.

"Jesus, Mom, you called the _cops_?"

"Honey, I _am_ the cops," Sharon retorted, and Brenda heard her saying, _Honey, I don't know what it's like in Atlanta, but in Los Angeles…_ The tone was exactly the same. So the captain had been treating the recalcitrant deputy chief the same way she treated her recalcitrant child. Good to know.

Before a fight could break out, Brenda scrambled quickly from the car. "I'm just your mama's friend Brenda," she said hastily. "Don't mind me."

"You have friends?" Claire returned, and Sharon pointed out, "You're the one who ran away from home to hide in your lair."

Brenda wasn't sure what she expected as Sharon rounded the front of the car and approached her daughter, but it wasn't for Claire to take two quick steps forward and fling herself into Sharon's arms. A few short weeks ago the idea of anyone flinging her- or himself into Sharon Raydor's arms would've been unfathomable. To her list of facts about Sharon Raydor, the chief added, _Sharon is a mother_. Oh, sure, Brenda knew the other woman had kids; but that was quite a different thing from seeing her as a mother.

The two women were speaking quietly to one another. All Brenda heard was Sharon's "We'll discuss it later" as the captain turned back toward the car. "You go take a nap while we get settled," she added. "And if that pot is anywhere I can see it, I'm flushing it, do you understand? I will certainly be talking to your brother about this."

Claire rolled her eyes. "John is hardly the only person I know who can supply me."

"He's the only one who's my son. – Inside. Nap."

When Sharon turned back to Brenda she looked embarrassed, and Brenda realized just how startled and disapproving her own expression must've been. "My kids aren't stoners, okay?" Raydor said briskly, and Brenda thought, _Oh no, one of 'em's just a drug dealer_, but she grabbed her bag and followed the older woman inside.

She found herself in a living area filled with overstuffed, battered furniture and bookcases bursting with books and stacks of board games. The scarred wooden floor was chipped and battered where it wasn't covered by bright rag-rugs. It certainly wasn't what Brenda had expected. _Right_, she reminded herself; _no surprises_.

Sharon threw one arm out, gesturing around the open-plan cottage. "Living and dining room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms through those doors. Bathroom there. That's the tour." Brenda blinked and Sharon smirked. "Put your bag down and come on."

The second Brenda stepped out onto the screened porch, she understood why Sharon's family hadn't spent a lot of money or effort on the interior decoration of the cottage. The view was magnificent, a sweeping, uninterrupted vista stretching over the wheat-colored sand down to the churning deep blue water of the Pacific. She sucked in a quick, sharp breath.

"Wow, Sharon."

"Yeah, wow." The brunette's expression was not a smirk, not a grin, but a genuine smile. It made her look softer, lighter, approachable. "Have a seat. There are plenty of blankets if you're chilly, and later we'll have a fire. I'm going to make tea; would you care for some?"

Brenda easily smiled back. "That sounds great."

The furniture out here, like what she'd seen indoors, was a homely hodgepodge – two simple cane-bottomed chairs and a wicker loveseat with a cushioned seat and a mound of colorful pillows – and as she settled onto the loveseat and plumped up the pillows at her back, Brenda admitted that her vague preconceived notions about Captain Raydor's family were starting to look woefully misguided. That reminded her again how little she knew about the woman, factually speaking. It was an odd, disconcerting dichotomy. She knew how Sharon's mind worked, knew her secret vices and the name of her ex-girlfriend, knew she kept oatmeal soap and lavender bath oil in her guest bathroom; but she didn't know where she'd gone to college or how long she'd been married or even what her maiden name was.

It astonished Brenda, really, that it had not occurred to her to ask these things. They'd seemed like unimportant details before, first because she'd cheerfully spent as little time as possible thinking about Sharon Raydor, and later because she felt that somehow she and the captain already knew the important things about one another. But here, surrounded by Sharon's family's possessions, with her daughter sleeping in another room, the kettle whistling in the kitchen, and the waves crashing steadily on the rocky sand, Sharon's past seemed close and accessible, and Brenda found that she very much wanted to know.

Sharon reappeared with the tea, and Brenda schooled herself not to pounce and interrogate. She sometimes forgot how you were supposed to have a normal conversation.

"Did you grow up around here?"

Sharon looked surprised for an instant, jade eyes widening as she blew on the steaming black tea in her mug. "No, north of here. Near the Oregon border."

"So you're a real California girl."

"Technically. But that's the part of the state where it rains and gets cold and you have seasons, you know. Somehow I don't think the Beach Boys were singing about me."

Brenda grinned. "Not a surfer-girl?"

Sharon's brows arched above her mug. "Oh, I can surf." Off the blonde's surprised expression she elaborated, "It would be criminal to spend summers here and not know how to surf. I learned in college. Taught my kids, too."

Brenda laughed.

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know." The chief sipped her tea and then gestured between the two of them. "This place, you. You just keep surprisin' me, Sharon."

Those green eyes twinkled. "Do you like surprises, Brenda Leigh?"

She didn't know why that made her blush. "Sometimes. – Is she all right? Claire?"

Sharon sighed and gazed out at the ocean. "I hope so. Time will tell."

They sat quietly for a long time, each lost in her own thoughts, the steady crashing and sucking of the ocean providing pleasant background noise. At one point Sharon disappeared inside, reemerging with warm quilts to ward off the sea breeze and the late afternoon chill, and a tattered paperback. Brenda tucked her legs up under her, mounded the throw pillows around the arm of the loveseat, and slumped contentedly, letting her mind drift. Her bare toes poked into Sharon's thigh, but Sharon didn't say anything, so Brenda didn't either. It was nice to be quiet like this. It pleased her that Sharon didn't need to talk. Brenda closed her eyes, lulled by the rhythm of the waves and the occasional scrape of a turning page. She knew she was smiling, and felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. Yes, sometimes it was nice just to be.

2.

The first thing Sharon realized was that her nose was absolutely freezing. The second was that it was pitch dark. The third was that her mattress was lumpy and bony and gently rose and fell with the regular rhythm of deep breathing.

She was disoriented for a few seconds, her sleep-hazed brain unable to make sense of the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle: ocean sounds, darkness, a warm body at her side.

The cottage. Claire.

_Brenda._

Brenda had nodded off in the sunshine, and at some point Sharon had obviously fallen asleep reading the old detective thriller that she'd selected from her father's collection. She realized she had simply tipped over to her left, mimicking the other woman's position, so that Sharon was curled around Brenda the same way Brenda was curled around the pile of pillows on the arm of the loveseat. Sharon's head rested on her own arm, and beneath her arm she felt Brenda's side, her hip, warm through the layer of quilt that separated them.

_Well, isn't this cozy_, Sharon thought wryly.

She realized that what had woken her was sound from the main part of the cottage. She heard movement again now, and caught the tantalizing aroma of pepperoni pizza. Moving cautiously, she eased herself away from Brenda and stood, the floor cold even through her socks. She knew she should wake the other woman as well, but Sharon didn't particularly think Brenda needed to know that Sharon had been cuddling her like a giant teddy bear while they shared their impromptu nap. It was all much, much too intimate, especially given the way the atmosphere surrounding the two of them had been crackling with suppressed energy all day.

She should not have brought Brenda Leigh Johnson up here. It was just asking for a world of trouble.

But then, Sharon assured herself, she was a rational, reasonable adult woman, not a hormonal teenager. She could carry on being friends with Brenda; she'd just keep her at a slight distance. That shouldn't be difficult, since Captain Raydor was accustomed to keeping almost everyone at a distance.

It would be fine, and she was worrying over nothing, which wasn't like her.

Claire looked over her shoulder from her crouching position in front of the hearth, orange flames from the newly kindled fire playing over her face and skin, turning her red hair into living fire. "It lives," she teased lightly. "I got us a pizza. Half pepperoni and mushroom, half olives and green peppers. I didn't know whether Brenda was a vegetarian or anything."

Sharon smirked. "She's from the South, babe. I think they're required to eat meat at every meal, preferably pork."

"Great. We're sorted, then." Claire stood and watched while Sharon stretched, first extending her arms as far as she could and then bending deeply at the waist. "Nice nap?"

"You should've woken me. I came up here to spend time with you, not to sleep."

Her daughter shrugged. "There will be plenty of time tomorrow. I'm not the greatest company right now anyway – but I'm getting it together. The two of you looked peaceful, and I figure you don't get a lot of rest. You never used to."

Sharon wouldn't let herself pry into what was going on in Claire's head and didn't want to answer the unasked question about work, so instead she wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. She hadn't exactly mentioned her suspension to the kids. "Eww, Claire. Diet Pepsi? Have I taught you nothing?"

"I didn't buy it for you."

Brenda came stumbling in from the porch, awakened either by their voices or the absence of Sharon's body heat – a thought that made Sharon's stomach execute a funny little flip. "Brr," the blonde said, rubbing her arms. "It got cold out there. I smell pizza."

After they'd served themselves (Sharon slapping Brenda's hand when she reached for the last pepperoni slice), Claire suggested a movie. Brenda soon found herself wondering again if a wormhole had opened and she'd tumbled into an alternate reality, because she was eating pizza with black olives, which she didn't like, and watching _The Sound of Music_ with Sharon Raydor and her daughter, who knew all the words to all the songs.

Sharon had a nice voice, actually, a melodious alto that contrasted pleasantly with Claire's sweet soprano. Brenda couldn't sing a note so she concentrated on her pizza, but after a while she couldn't hold back her laughter.

Two pairs of uncanny green eyes glared at her and two voices demanded, "What?" It was like having the captain in stereo.

"No, it's just – _ah_-hah-hah – I don't think I'll ever look at you quite the same, captain, after hearin' you sing 'I am Sixteen, Goin' on Seventeen.'"

Sharon didn't miss a beat. "Fuck off, chief," she replied succinctly, and Claire dissolved into gales of laughter. After a second the two older women followed suit.

After the movie Sharon glanced at her watch. "I think I'll go get groceries," she decided. "I'd rather do it now than have to do it first thing in the morning."

Claire yawned. "I'm going to bed."

Brenda bit her lip. "You mind if I stay here?"

"Of course not." Sharon hoped she didn't sound as relieved as she felt. She badly needed a little time away from Brenda Leigh, in the dark and quiet of her car with only her own thoughts for company.

After being in the car for so much of the day already Sharon hadn't expected the drive to the supermarket to be soothing, but it was. The road was familiar, the task mundane. Everything is normal, she reassured herself. Everything is fine.

She just needed to stop thinking about how neatly her own form had fit against the sinuous curve of the chief's side, or how the blonde had spent so much of the drive up staring at her, staring and staring and staring and worrying her lower lip with her teeth as if she was unconscious of doing it, that Sharon had felt like screaming. That or leaning over and biting Brenda's lip for her.

When she got back to the cottage it was quiet and dark, save the outside light Sharon had left on for herself. She turned off the engine and sat still for a moment. She had so many memories of this place – not childhood memories, because she had been older, college-age, when her parents had bought this place; but memories of bringing David here for the first time, of coming with the children when they were small and as they grew, and then by herself, when she just needed an escape, a little breather where she could just be Sharon, just herself, and not be Captain Raydor or Mom or that-middle-aged-woman-with-the-typical-relationship-problems. She'd certainly never imagined that those memories would include Brenda.

Inside, Sharon quickly put away the groceries, and then got ready for bed. Her overnight bag was still in the living area where she'd left it, so she went into the bathroom to change into her pajamas – no use having to turn the light on in the bedroom and waking Claire. Sharon was concerned about her daughter, her baby, but she knew that Claire had a good head on her shoulders – she was calmer and more level-headed than either of her older siblings, really, and had always had an awe-inspiring talent for cheerfully rolling with the punches life threw – and had to trust that she'd sort things out in time, and tell Sharon what she wanted or needed her to know.

After she'd washed her face and brushed her teeth, Sharon slipped into the bedroom that she'd always thought of as her parents', even though she'd spent more time sleeping here herself, with David, than in the other room, which held only a double bed. When all three kids had been at home, Jonathan had always been relegated to the couch while the girls shared the other room, but no one had seemed to mind. Then, after the divorce, the sleeping arrangements had stayed that way, although it would've made more sense for Sharon to trade with her daughters. They'd never brought it up.

Gauging the distance from memory, Sharon walked cautiously to the bed to avoid banging her shins. Her leg lightly brushed a bare foot and she smiled. From the time she'd had the strength to lift her baby blanket, Claire had always thrown off her covers during the night.

The empty side of the bed was the one against the wall. Sharon rolled her eyes, unimpressed by her daughter's lack of consideration, and lifted one knee onto the mattress, patting the bed first with her palm to avoid kneeing her youngest in the ribs. She ought to wake her up and make her move over.

Rather awkwardly, she maneuvered her other knee onto the bed and stretched to straddle Claire's sleeping form. "For someone so small," she murmured, "you take up an inordinate amount of space."

"I'm not _that_ small."

The sleep-roughened voice that responded startled Sharon so badly that she jerked, managing to throw herself off balance, and collapsed gracelessly and heavily onto the form below her – which was certainly not her daughter's.

"Oof," the other woman grunted, pained. "Ow. What're you – Sharon -?"

"Shit!" Sharon exclaimed, scrambling frantically to extricate herself. "This was much worse than earlier in the evening because they were both awake, at least somewhat, and since Brenda had kicked off the covers there was no blanket barrier between their bodies. The silk of Sharon's pajamas slid over the rougher fabric of whatever the chief was wearing, catching and riding up to expose a few inches of her midriff, and her elbow crashed into the blonde's ribs. Brenda instinctively grabbed for Sharon to stop her ineffectual but painful flailing, one of her hands seizing the back of Sharon's leg, and the other –

They both froze. Over the pounding of her own heart Sharon could hear their harsh breathing. Brenda didn't move her hand. For her part, Sharon was afraid to move anything.

The chief's fingers twitched, a reflexive contraction, and Sharon's nipple instantly rose to attention against Brenda's palm. She knew the younger woman could feel it with perfect clarity through the flimsy material.

The contact probably only lasted for a second, two at the most, but Sharon's thundering pulse threw all sense of the passage of time for a loop.

They lurched into action at the same instant, Sharon scuttling over the side of the bed like a crab while Brenda Leigh fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, verbally battling to out-apologize one another. When Brenda got the lamp on at last, the yellow glow revealed Sharon standing with her arms folded protectively over her chest, engaged in an activity in which Brenda had never seen her captain participate: blushing furiously.

Sharon cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, chief," she said with all the dignity she could muster. "I, ah, I expected Claire to be in here. I apologize for having disturbed you.

Brenda blinked a few times and produced a forced, too-bright smile. "That's quite all right, captain."

"Good night, chief," Sharon added stiffly, and stepped out into the darkened living area, firmly closing the door behind her.

_Chief, chief, chief_, she mentally repeated as she gathered a couple of blankets and made a nest for herself on the sofa. _Chief, chief, chief_.

She'd be more comfortable out here than squeezed into that narrow bed with Claire.

_Chief, chief, chief. Chief Johnson. Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson_.

Besides, Sharon was no prude, but the idea of trying to sleep peacefully next to her daughter while her body was still doing… things… in reaction to Brenda's unexpected (but not unwanted) touch made her cringe.

No, she'd sleep out here, get herself and her thoughts and this stupid flood of raging middle-aged hormones under control. Sharon tucked the blankets under her chin and curled into a protective ball.

Nothing could happen with Brenda. It was as simple as that.

Her body emitted a throb in protest, and Sharon huddled more tightly into the covers. She had to stop thinking about it. Sharon Raydor had always been scrupulously self-disciplined. So why was she having such trouble stemming the flow of images that surged unbidden through her mind's eye? Brenda's fingers cradling her breast, not accidentally this time but because she wanted to, both of them bathed in a flood of lamplight. Brenda arching beneath her, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure and concentration. How her own hands would look against the bare skin of the blonde's thighs as she spread them wide, obscenely wide, and –

_Stop stop stop_. Sharon forced her eyes open and stared fixedly into the darkness, dragging in long, measured breaths to slow her heart rate.

It had been one thing before, when Sharon had been able to pretend this attraction was a one-sided chemical thing. When she'd been able to convince herself that Brenda didn't want it, that the thought of a physical relationship with the captain had never crossed her sweet little Georgia mind. But now –

She flashed unwillingly on the way the other woman had looked at her over the roof of the car this afternoon at the rest stop. Her deep brown eyes had been hooded, the expression in them hungry. And she hadn't been focused on the damn Reese's cup.

_Christ, Sharon, you need to get laid._

By someone other than the deputy chief.

She rolled her eyes at the juvenile vulgarity of her own mind, but still. Maybe she should've taken Kate up on her offer the other night. Yes, perhaps that had been an error in judgment.

She and Brenda had both instinctively reverted to using one another's professional ranks back there in the bedroom. It was a distancing tactic, one Sharon employed frequently. Not only was Brenda married and nominally straight, but she was Sharon's superior officer. That was not a factor Sharon took lightly. She had always prided herself on her professional decorum, and, unlike many of her colleagues, had never had a – liaison – with a fellow officer.

Certainly not one who was a married, nominally straight deputy chief.

_Chief Johnson_, Sharon repeated to herself, closing her eyes. _Chief, chief, chief._

She repeated the mantra as her mind drifted and blurred around the edges, and at last Sharon fell asleep counting deputy chiefs traipsing around crime scenes in sling-backs and gaudy floral-print skirts.


	11. Chapter 11

****_Oops, just realized I totally forgot to post this chapter here. Sorry! Also, I ask you to indulge the sloppy self-editing job._

**Chapter Eleven: Wish They All Could Be…**

1.

"I come bearing gifts."

Sharon turned toward the sound of her daughter's voice to find her youngest laboring across the loose sand, a thick blanket draped over her bent arm and a large thermos that Sharon recognized from countless mornings she'd spend drinking coffee on this beach with her father clasped in her other hand.

"Tell me that's coffee." The idea of a caffeine infusion was more welcome than she cared to admit; she'd been out here, strolling and then simply sitting, since shortly after the sun rose, because she'd been glad to rise from a restless sleep that only had so much to do with the saggy springs of the antiquated couch.

"Please. You raised me right."

Claire handed the thermos over and the two women arranged themselves shoulder to shoulder on the blanket Sharon had already spread on the sand, Claire's over their shoulders. Sharon took a sip of the steaming liquid and arched an eyebrow.

"It has one sugar, Mom. _One_. At least I didn't dump half a gallon of milk in there the way Bekah does." She held a small hand out imperatively. "Share."

Sharon quietly watched Claire as she drank long and deep.

"You can ask, you know," her daughter finally muttered.

"I don't want you to think I'm interrogating you," Sharon replied neutrally.

"I'm not Bekah, okay? You can ask me how I am without it becoming an international issue." She scrubbed at her forehead. "You can ask me why I'm fucking everything up and acting like a crazy person."

"Do you want me to?"

Claire sighed and nodded, and Sharon nodded too, reaching over to tuck a strand of copper hair behind her daughter's ear. "Let's drink our coffee first. Brenda's not anywhere near the stove, is she?"

"I think she's still asleep. The bedroom door was closed." Claire studied her mother out of the corner of her eye. Sharon was watching the sunlight glint off the white-capping waves. In the morning light, the fine web of lines lightly bracketing her mouth and eyes stood out clearly on her pale, naked skin; and Claire felt the same glow of pride she'd felt from her earliest memories of childhood in her beautiful, competent mother. Sharon finally glanced over at her, curious, and Claire asked, "Did you guys have a fight? You slept on the couch."

Sharon's lips twitched. "No. She's not – We're friends, baby. Just friends. From work."

"Oh." Claire had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Oh, God, sorry. That must've been awkward."

Sharon shrugged. "A bit, when I thought she was you and pretty much fell on top of her."

Claire giggled. "Smooth. And here I was wondering where I got it."

"Got what?"

"Oh, my charm with the ladies, of course."

Sharon continued to look out at the water for a moment. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'Oh.'"

The captain shifted closer to her daughter and stroked her arm through the long-sleeved Henley the young woman wore. "You know that's not anything to be… concerned about."

"I know you and Dad won't try to ship me back to the manufacturer, if that's what you mean."

Sharon snorted, and then fell quiet again, drinking coffee and giving Claire a moment.

"How do you – Have you ever been –" Claire broke off, took a deep breath, and instead of skirting the issue approached it head-on in true Raydor fashion. "I'm in love with Rachel. And before you ask me if I'm sure, yeah, I'm sure. I've been sure for two years."

Sharon nodded slowly before putting the thermos down, making a little nest for it in the sand so it wouldn't tip over. Then she firmly wrapped her arms around her youngest child. "Rachel has a boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah. Well, correction: Rachel had a boyfriend. She now has a fiancé. She came home last Wednesday morning flashing her perfect little princess-cut diamond around. You ought to see the thing, Mom. It's totally unimaginative. Sean probably saw it on some jewelry store commercial."

Sharon rubbed her daughter's back. "And this is what precipitated this… vacation of yours?"

"More or less." Claire rolled her eyes and huffed out a breath. "God, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. And how can I go home? What's she going to _think_? How did you raise such a pathetic child, Captain Raydor?"

"I didn't, of course. And it isn't stupid. Admittedly, blowing off a week of work and classes isn't the smartest decision you've ever made –"

"Tell me about it," Claire muttered.

"—but you'll go back, face the situation and make the best of it."

"No wonder people at work don't like you."

"Honey, this is not why people at work don't like me."

"Brenda Leigh likes you."

"You'd be surprised. And you're changing the subject."

"I am." Claire bumped her mother with her elbow. "Please." Her voice wavered. "Let's talk about you and Brenda."

Sharon frowned as she reached for the coffee again. "Me and Bren-da," she echoed.

"She's seriously not your girlfriend? Or is this a 'don't ask, don't tell' thing?"

Sharon looked askance. "I do have plenty of friends, men and women, who are just friends, Claire."

"Sure. But you've never dragged any of them six hours up the coast to look for your daughter who's gone AWOL from law school."

"There were extenuating circumstances. The chief needed to get away for a few days."

"Marriage problems? She wears a ring," Claire added off her mother's look.

"No, not that it concerns you. Besides, if you know Brenda's married, why are you asking all these questions?"

Claire managed a grin. "Rachel's engaged," she pointed out.

Her mother smirked. "And on that note, I think it's time to go for a run. Come on."

2.

The house was quiet with the quietness of emptiness, and Brenda was hungry, but there was half a pot of good strong coffee, so she'd survive. She was sitting on the porch when she heard voices, a door slam, and Claire calling out, "I beat you. That entitles me to the first shower."

"This is why your father and I should have stopped at two."

"Yeah, well, there're a lot of things that you and Dad shouldn't have done."

Brenda winced, but Sharon looked unperturbed as she wandered out onto the porch. The skin framing her eyes displayed those enticing crinkles as she smiled. "Good morning, chief."

So that was how she intended to play it. "Captain." Brenda's eyes swept over the other woman and her breath caught – just for an instant, but it made her flush. Black leggings hugged every millimeter of Sharon's long legs, revealing the clean lines of her muscular thighs, and the pale blue tank top over her sports bra clung to skin that was dewy with sweat. Brenda tore her gaze away from the way the fabric molded lovingly to the gentle swell of her abdomen and hinted at the shadowy valley between her breasts.

And she smelled good, of fresh sweat and earthiness and the salt breeze of the Pacific. Sharon stretched her arms above her head, loosening her muscles, and the cloud of her scent enveloped Brenda, who fought the urge to close her eyes and savor the moment. Scratch that: she smelled amazing. Brenda Leigh had grown up in an unairconditioned house in Georgia, and had always been too intimately familiar with the body's natural cooling system to appreciate the whole 'sweat is sexy' thing. But here she was, staring at a drop of perspiration sliding down Sharon Raydor's collarbone and imagining licking it away, the roughness of her own tongue against that sweat-slicked flesh.

_Oh, Lord_. Brenda pressed her knees together to quell the undeniable surge of arousal that arced through her. "You went for a run?" she asked stupidly, with an accompanying big, stupid grin.

"They're runners, my spawn." Beneath the dismissive tone Brenda heard the maternal pride. Green eyes narrowed and glinted. "Brenda, is that the last of the coffee?"

"Yeah," Brenda admitted guiltily. _I'll make more_ was on the tip of her tongue. Instead she held out her clunky earthenware mug. "Here. Share."

Sharon hesitated for an instant, and then she reached out, her hand curving around the chief's as she accepted the drink, so that they both held the mug as Sharon leaned down and tipped it up to her lips. Brenda felt the heat of her body, breathed in the pungent sweat. As the captain straightened, her eyes glinted with knowledge and something that looked a lot like promise. Her voice was a little huskier than usual. "Thanks, chief."

Brenda stared, mesmerized by the feeling of Sharon's hand cradling hers, by her nearness, by the tenor of her voice.

Then Sharon jerked away so quickly that some of the coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the bleached wooden floor. Brenda watched her step back and fold her hands together, Captain Raydor again. "What would you like for breakfast?" she asked politely and rather stiffly.

_You_.

Astonished by the boldness of the thought, Brenda felt her eyes widen to cartoon-character proportions. "Oh, uh, whatever's fine," she said sweetly. "Did you get any pop tarts?"

Sharon rolled her eyes. "I did not," she returned distastefully, and pivoted, heading for the kitchen. The moment of danger had passed.

Brenda threw herself back into the depths of the rickety cane chair. For heaven's sake. What had gotten into her?

Brenda was relieved.

Brenda was disappointed.

Brenda was losing what was left of her mind.

The tomato and cheese omelets Claire made all of them for breakfast while Sharon took a quick shower gave Brenda something nice and mundane to focus her attention on, which helped her clear her thoughts. So did the desultory conversation centered around the crossword puzzle Claire was working.

And that was very good, because the sight of Sharon across the table, her skin scrubbed clean of any makeup, the wet hair spilling over her shoulders beginning to form a riot of curls as it dried, was a powerful distraction.

She needed to stop this, this business of being so intensely aware of Sharon Raydor's physical presence. They'd left Los Angeles for a few days; that didn't give Brenda permission to take leave of her senses as well.

Even as Brenda Leigh thought the perfectly sensible, reasonable words, she felt no conviction behind them. She sighed heavily enough to draw Claire's curious eye, and in response she forced a crooked smile. "What was that one?" she asked, feigning interest in the puzzle.

"Five letters." Claire smirked that smirk Brenda knew so well. "A clandestine meeting for the purpose of sexual contact."

Brenda gaped. _Oh, for heaven's sake_.

"Tryst," Sharon said precisely, rising and placing all three of their plates in the sink. "Now that everyone has finished, I'll dry my hair and we can show Brenda a bit of the city, hmm?"

The chief told herself not to make too much of the fact that Sharon hadn't had to think about the puzzle clue for longer than a split-second.

Brenda was by the door, lacing up her shoes, when Sharon and her daughter came trooping out from Claire's bedroom. " – and the pier, you know, and those funky little shops."

Sharon snorted derisively. "The head shops? You in the market for a bong, chief?"

"I could just steal one from the evidence room," the blonde retorted smartly, returning to a standing position.

Claire chuckled, trailing the two older women out into the sunlight. "Have fun, you guys."

"Aren't you coming?" Sharon looked back with obvious surprise that, if she hadn't known better, Brenda would've sworn bordered on alarm.

"I'd rather stay here and mope," the young woman returned flatly, but held up a hand to stave off the inevitable flood of motherly concern. "Look, I've decided that I'm going home tomorrow, like you said, and I'm going to face –" She looked right into her mother's green eyes and took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving – "the situation. I just need a little time by myself." She mustered a shadowy smile. "Besides, I've seen town, and I've certainly seen the university."

Brenda watched Sharon swallow and nod gravely, and then force herself to look more cheerful. "Okay. Fair enough." She hugged her daughter, and as she did she whispered something in Claire's ear that made her blurt out a genuine laugh.

"Yeah, that's my diabolical plan," she snorted, and wiggled her fingers at her mother's blonde companion. "Bye, Brenda. _Y'all_ have fun."

"You know," Brenda began ominously as they jolted over the rutted access road, "you still have some serious explaining to do, captain."

The sidelong look Sharon sent her was so filled with trepidation that Brenda couldn't hold back an undignified giggle. It was so much fun to make her squirm. Brenda knew what Sharon thought she was going to say, but Captain Raydor wasn't the only one with a few surprises up her sleeve; ask any one of the dozens of Brenda's "acquaintances" now cooling their heels in maximum-security facilities as guests of the State of California.

"Do you have some sort of secret Julie Andrews obsession, or what?"

"Ahh." The older woman's nostrils flared slightly as she released a long breath, and then her smirk returned to its rightful home. "No. It was my mother."

Brenda Leigh raised her eyebrows. "You were obsessed with your mother?"

Sharon glared.

"Your mother was obsessed with Julie Andrews?" the deputy chief hazarded, still grinning.

"Do you actually want to know or not? – My mother adored musical theater. When I was a little girl, she was always in some amateur production or another at the community theater. Oh, only in the chorus, but she loved it." The older woman relaxed back in her seat as she waited for an SUV to pass before she could pull out onto the highway. "Rodgers and Hammerstein were her favorites. She spent hours playing the sheet music on her piano. I remember my sister trying to sing along before she could talk."

Brenda recognized the wistfulness in the captain's smile. It forcibly reminded her of a subject she preferred to avoid at all costs, her own parents' mortality. "You're usin' the past tense," she observed sympathetically, wondering if she should just let it go but wanting to know. Yesterday she'd resolved to start asking Sharon questions, hadn't she? "Your mother passed away?"

Sharon didn't answer for a moment. Her eyes appeared to be focused on the road, but Brenda felt sure she was seeing something else. "In a manner of speaking," the older woman finally said brusquely. "Her body's alive, but she's gone." She glanced over. "Dementia," she explained succinctly. "She hasn't recognized any of us in nearly two years."

Brenda bit her lip, imagining how awful that would be for only a second before her thoughts shied away from the prospect. To lose a parent or a spouse that way, to lose yourself and be left with a shell – "I'm sorry," she murmured earnestly. Sharon Raydor has family. Sharon is someone's daughter, someone's sister. She has a mama and a daddy and a brother and a sister.

Sharon nodded once, definitely. "So am I." The chief assumed the subject was closed, but after a moment of uninterrupted quiet the captain resumed, "My father cared for her as long as he could, but finally he had to admit she needed to be in a care facility. When he turned his back she'd run out of the house, try to drive sometimes –" She broke off with a shrug. "Well."

"Where is she?" Brenda asked softly, almost feeling like she was trespassing on Sharon's private life.

"Westwood."

The chief wasn't sure why the answer surprised her so much; maybe because Sharon had never mentioned her mother before. But then, why would she, to Chief Johnson of all people? Brenda shifted in her seat, made uncomfortable by this latest reminder of how much she had to learn about the captain.

To lighten the mood, she said, "Rodgers and Hammerstein – So it's not just _The Sound of Music_?"

Sharon's eyes sparkled when she smiled, and Brenda allowed herself, just for a second, to focus on how stunning she was. "Oh, no. I can do _South Pacific_, _Oklahoma!_, _The King and I_…"

"I'd just love to hear."

Sharon guffawed, the completely unrestrained sound racing through Brenda. "Oh, I bet you would." She glanced in the rearview mirror, and then over at Brenda again. "Would you like to see the university? There are some nice trails, if you feel like going for a walk."

Brenda smiled. "Yeah," she agreed. "I'd like that, Sharon."

They didn't talk much as they wandered around the campus, Sharon in the lead. Brenda was taken by the seemingly vast amount of land the school occupied, by the massive redwoods and winding paths that felt miles away from both partying freshmen and a bustling city. After forty years spent in the Southeast, the scrubby bushes, the occasional cactus, the trees with their dark, glossy leaves, still struck her as terribly exotic.

"It's funny," she commented as they walked back to the car, and Sharon looked over her shoulder to ask, "What is?"

"How little of California I've actually seen."

The brunette smirked. "It is a large state."

Brenda suddenly thought that she'd quite like to explore it with Sharon Raydor as her tour guide. She blurted out, "Well, I've got a lot of catchin' up to do, and now I've got my very own California girl, right?"

Sharon turned wide, surprised eyes on her, and Brenda felt herself blush. What on earth had possessed her to say that? Sharon wasn't 'her girl,' and she never would be.

Something flickered in those moss-colored eyes, and Sharon turned abruptly to unlock the car door. "I'll take you down to see the natural bridges, and then to the boardwalk."

3.

It was cooler down near the water, with a brisk breeze coming in off the ocean. The area that was a beehive in summer, working alive with tourists and locals alike, was relatively quiet late on a Sunday morning in October. Sharon appreciated the peace, the sharp brilliance of the sun glaring off the water, the cawing of the seabirds wheeling overhead. Normally she would give herself over to the experience, revel in the disconnection from her quotidian concerns.

Today she was too tense, too anxious, and that had everything to do with the blonde striding beside her, taking the scene in with bright, curious eyes. There was something charmingly exciting about Brenda's freshness, her excitement, the naivete that mixed so piquantly with her intelligence.

It was bad enough that she was acutely aware of Brenda on a physical level, having to steel herself not to start each time their jacket-clad arms lightly brushed, but at least that was nothing new. That didn't explain what had made her open up and start talking about her mother, for Christ's sake. That was deeply personal in a way that wasn't comparable to an accidental boob-grab.

Lost in thought, Sharon didn't notice as the toe of her ankle-boot caught in a thick braid of seaweed, and she stumbled. The chief instantly seized her elbow, the firm grasp the only thing that prevented Sharon from ending up on her knees in the damp sand.

"Careful," Brenda cautioned unnecessarily, as she hauled the brunette to a fully upright position. "Don't wanna break any bones at your age."

Sharon shot her a nasty glare, and Brenda offered a sunny smile in response. Sharon pulled her arm from Brenda's grasp, but then somehow her fingers were enfolding that cold, slightly smaller hand and squeezing. Her mind firmly commanded her muscles and bones to pull away, but instead she watched, fascinated, as her fingers linked with Brenda's. The younger woman's diamond sparkled in the sunlight and Sharon heard Brenda's breath hitch, but she squeezed Sharon's fingers tightly.

Sharon's thumb whispered over Brenda Leigh's knuckles, her gaze still fastened on their joined hands. "You're cold," she heard herself observe huskily. "You need a warmer jacket."

The younger woman looked from their hands to their feet and back. "I'm warm enough," she said softly, shyly, and forcefully squeezed Sharon's fingers. The captain's heart responded with a painful, inappropriate little leap. "But somethin' hot to drink might be nice."

Trying to be casual about it, Sharon extricated her tingling fingers from Brenda's and thrust her hand into her jacket pocket. "Coffee?" she suggested.

Brenda's smile was tremulous, too bright; her voice a little too energetic. "Hot chocolate!"

Sharon nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching up. "I can make that happen. This way, chief."

A few minutes later they were walking down the wide street a block in from the oceanfront, Brenda with a giant hot chocolate drizzled with caramel and whipped cream, and Sharon with a much more modestly sized latte.

"Want some?" the blonde asked, gesturing with her paper cup.

"No." Sharon was forced to pause as the wind whipped a hank of her hair into her mouth and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear. "It's too sweet for me."

"That's the point, captain. It's good 'cause it's sweet."

Sharon's perfectly groomed brows arched. "I prefer coffee," she replied, letting the cup warm her fingers and trying not to notice the delicate flush that crept all the way down her companion's neck, below the vee of her sweater, or how her hard nipples jutted against the fabric of the same sweater, clearly visible beneath her open jacket.

The glint in Brenda Leigh's deep brown eyes suggested to Sharon that she'd been noticed noticing. "Maybe it's not too sweet," she drawled slowly. "Maybe you're too sour."

Sharon tilted her head coolly, but awkwardly shoved her free hand into her coat pocket in a habitual nervous gesture. She hated that Brenda Leigh Johnson could make her nervous. It took her right back to high school, to being the shy, smart girl who only opened fire in debate club, and who blushed and got tongue-tied and smiled too much around the really popular girls. Everyone had known who Sharon Raydor was – everyone had known she'd be the valedictorian (which she was) and go off to a good school back East (which she did); but that was different from being popular.

Captain Sharon Raydor, the head of FID, did not get nervous. She did not seek refuge in her pockets.

Well, unless she crossed paths with Major Crimes. It had gotten so bad that for a period of time last spring she had intentionally worn only her suits and trousers that didn't have pockets, to try and break the habit when she was forced to confront the deputy chief. The fact that she'd had to think about this at all had left her furiously humiliated.

"You cold now, Sharon?" The blonde took an unprecedented step into the older woman's personal space and reached between them, hooking her pinky into Sharon's zipper tab and drawing it up. Sharon knew she blushed as Brenda's hand passed so near her breasts, almost as near as she'd been last night, and attempted to compensate by closing her features down into her most glacial expression. Brenda only smiled angelically.

"If you spill that on me, you can pay to have my jacket dry-cleaned," the captain snapped, and the chief positively batted her eyelashes.

"Oh, I don't know." God, that drawl was insufferable. It made Sharon want to grab Brenda and shake the words out of her so they'd come at a reasonable pace, like actual human beings spoke (and this from Sharon!). It poured over her frayed nerve endings, thick and sticky like molasses.

In that instant, Sharon Raydor wanted to _kill _Brenda Johnson.

"It might sweeten your disposition a little," Brenda finally continued, chocolate eyes intently focused on wide green ones. "Might just be worth it."

The chief hadn't stepped back, so she was still invading Sharon's space, standing so close that the older woman could feel her chocolate-and-caramel breath on her lips.

Chocolate and coffee: if they kissed, it would be mocha-flavored.

"Don't you like sweet things, Sharon?" Brenda asked, her voice pitched low as her eyes raked over Raydor.

"Sometimes," Sharon managed, and they both heard how uncharacteristically thread her voice was.

"How 'bout now?"

To her horror, Sharon couldn't tear her eyes away as Brenda's perfectly pink tongue flicked out and slowly, so slowly, moistened her lips. When she realized her own tongue was dragging across her lower lip in breathless imitation, she could've bitten it in half. She settled for immediately retracting it and sinking her teeth bruisingly into her lip.

Anger spiked along with her humiliation. Brenda wasn't stupid; she read body language at work all day long every day. The drawl, the sweet smile, the teasing, that tongue thing: she knew exactly what she was doing. She was flirting unabashedly, baiting the reserved captain.

Taunting her.

Over the course of the last twenty-four hours Sharon had betrayed herself, her desires, and Brenda was taunting her.

For a split second Sharon felt the tightening in her throat that signaled oncoming tears, and she bared her teeth in response. "No," she snarled, and spun on her heel, striding briskly away.

High school, indeed. She needed Brenda to be her friend, god damn it.

"Sharon?"

Footsteps jogged after her. The blonde caught up easily – Sharon refused to alter her pace – and they walked in step for a few yards until Brenda asked, "Hey, are you hungry? I'd love a burger."

Sharon risked a glance at the chief and discovered that her expression was as contrite as her tone. Brenda knew she'd crossed a line.

So now, of course, the only thing to do was to pretend that she hadn't.

"Burritos," Sharon replied calmly. "I know a really good place. We'll take one back for Claire."


	12. Chapter 12

****A/N: Sorry for the long lag between updates; I keep forgetting to post here. But I'm making up for it tonight. Three chapters coming at you, dear readers.

**Chapter Twelve: Can't Always Get What You Want**

Slap, slap, slap, slap. Running shoes rhythmically striking cracked pavement. Lungs expanding and contracting as they processed carefully measured breaths.

She had known this would happen if she let things go too far. She'd anticipated it, could've scripted it. Foreknowledge did nothing to lessen the bitterness of the pill Sharon was now swallowing, though. It had precisely the opposite effect, actually, because as she replayed every word, every look, every touch that had passed between herself and Brenda Leigh Johnson, it was so damn _easy_ to see where she'd gone wrong, not just with the perfect clarity of hindsight but with the humiliating admission that she'd known at the time, too. That was the worst part: she'd known what would happen, and she'd let it all happen anyway.

Left, right, left right, body on autopilot.

The problem with "too far" was that it was an abstract distance; you could always convince yourself that it was up ahead somewhere, that you hadn't arrived yet.

_Sharon, you're running too far. You're going to be exhausted. Turn around._

A few more strides and she acceded to the demand of her internal voice and turned around. Oh, if only it were that simple.

She wanted to keep running, but she had nowhere to go, only back home.

Sharon had tried. Sharon had failed. Perhaps failure had been inevitable all along. Very seldom did Brenda Leigh not get what she wanted.

What she _thought_ she wanted at the time.

Sharon closed her eyes and breathed out even more slowly in an effort to calm her thoughts. All of this was completely unproductive.

Despite her intentions, she picked up her pace again, soles of her shoes slapping vengefully, almost willing to punish her body further by courting shin splints.

Inhale. Soft, delicate fingers threading through her hair. Exhale. Those delicate fingers suddenly tugging with determined force.

Inhale. That mouth. Exhale. Oh, God, that mouth, stained with wine and tasting of rich red fruits.

If only Sharon could literally run the clock back, each step erasing one second's worth of agonizing sensory memory, the captain would cheerfully run a marathon.

When would she be able to stop, though? Would she have to keep running until she passed that night two years ago when she'd caught her first glimpse of Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson?

Maybe she could stop with that Sunday afternoon on the beach in Santa Cruz. She'd keep her hands in her pockets this time; she'd balk when Brenda suggested the second bottle of wine after dinner and half a pan of brownies; she'd say good night to the blonde at the same time Claire did, and spend the night crowding her daughter in that narrow, venerable double bed. Because Sharon wasn't proud of how she'd behaved up until that point, but it had been once Claire was safely slumbering behind a closed door that everything had gone horribly, irretrievably wrong.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong_, agreed Sharon's running shoes.

The wine certainly hadn't helped matters. It had seemed to exhilarate Brenda, to free her, to fill her with sly courage – which was the last thing either of them had needed. Sharon remembered thinking that Brenda had been behaving like someone intoxicated since they'd left Los Angeles, and after thirty-six hours, Sharon was so exhausted that she would've thrown a ticker-tape parade to celebrate the return of the demanding, uppity deputy chief persona.

But it hadn't been the deputy chief occupying two thirds of the worn sofa Sunday night, lounging against Sharon's shoulder with bare feet and a proprietary air.

_Shit_, Sharon had thought morosely. _Just shit_.

The captain was a smart lady, too smart not to know when she was doing a very stupid thing. And yet she'd sat there, absorbing Brenda Leigh's body heat and admiring how her spindly body seemed to take up much more than its fair share of space. She hadn't shut everything down when those fingers rose to toy with the ends of her hair and that low, sultry voice had commented, "So much hair. So pretty."

The captain had done her best to remain aloof in the aftermath of those moments on the beach. She saw now that that had been a tactical error, because whatever primal, scheming part of Brenda's brain was in charge that weekend had taken her cool demeanor as a challenge.

Oh, yes, Sharon had known exactly what Brenda was doing, had known much better than Brenda herself, because Sharon analyzed everything and this impossible, tempting, destructive woman was refusing to analyze anything. The older woman wondered if the decision to seduce her had, on any level at all, been a conscious decision, or if the deputy chief had blithely launched herself into freefall.

Sharon had seen the ground rushing up at both of them, and less than ten minutes had elapsed since Sharon had pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead in the same ritualistic bedtime kiss she'd been bestowing for Claire's entire life.

_Get a grip, Raydor._

"Right," she'd said abruptly, moving to extricate herself from the depression their combined weight created in the old, broken-in sofa cushions. "I'm tired and I'm ready to go to sleep, so get out of my bedroom, chief. Good night."

"What, I don't get a good-night kiss?" Brenda grinned lazily, her eyes sparkling with that expression that meant trouble. "After all, you tucked me in the other night."

Sharon ignored the immediate spike in her blood pressure and rolled her eyes. "Would you like me to watch while you brush your teeth as well? Help you into your jammies?"

The captain realized her mistake instantly, as Brenda's grin had widened until her dimples showed. "Sure, captain. You could give me a hand." The hand that wasn't holding her half-empty wine glass continued toying with Sharon's dark hair. "It's nice to see you so willin' to assist a superior officer."

Sharon chuckled, because in those few seconds she had resolved to be amused by this situation and Brenda's outrageous behavior. The alternatives were to get angry, which would make this into a 'thing,' or, God forbid, to take Brenda on the level and respond in kind, which was sure to be a total fiasco.

The deputy chief didn't know what she was doing, what she was asking for. She might have convinced herself, in this wine- and chocolate-drugged moment, far away from home and husband, that she did, but Captain Raydor knew better. It was, after all, Captain Raydor's job to know better.

Brenda Leigh had hit a rough patch, both personally and professionally, which was why she'd sought Sharon's company in the first place. She was frustrated and lonely and curious, and Sharon could be a bitch, but she was an attractive bitch. Brenda must've missed out on the experimental phase in college; sweet little Georgia girls probably didn't do that. Now she wanted a diversion from the mess her life had become, and behold, here was Sharon.

The older woman was fairly certain their fledgling friendship couldn't last once she was back at work and Brenda remembered all the reasons she had to dislike the captain; but Sharon didn't want it to end this way, in a premature termination that would result in awkwardly averted glances and increased hostility whenever they did have to meet.

Brenda was an escalator; Sharon, a defuser. She needed to remember that now, when it would be so easy to throw caution to the wind and say "Fuck it," so easy to lean in and press her own lips to that wide mouth, to taste the residue of chocolate just as she had wanted to do that afternoon, to find out what else Brenda Leigh could do with that sassy tongue.

"I'm going to bed," Sharon had repeated patiently. "You might as well do the same. I want to get back at a reasonable hour tomorrow."

Brenda had frowned, her fingers stilling. "I thought we were stayin' 'til Tuesday."

Sharon pursed her lips. "You mean you actually want to miss two days of work?" At the deputy chief's hesitation, her features formed themselves into a derisive smirk. "I didn't think so. Good night, Brenda Leigh."

And then, to put a period to the exchange, to this strange little weekend excursion, to this whole bizarre, ill-conceived phase of the relationship between Deputy Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor, Sharon did exactly what the other woman had asked: she leaned forward and kissed her.

On the forehead.

She'd intended only to graze the blonde's pure, fair skin, but instead she pressed gently but firmly, as if she were giving a papal benediction, allowing her eyelids to flicker shut for just a second as she breathed in the fresh scent of her own bath soap on the younger woman's skin.

She knew she'd savored the contact for just a little too long, too long for it to be the simple act of dismissal she'd envisioned – a gesture engineered to bring Brenda right back to reality, to leave her feeling chastened and a little ashamed – and given away more of herself than she would've liked in the process. As she drew back, Sharon's forehead was lined with perplexity, her eyes a bit wide, not the confident captain but the awkward girl looking with trepidation at the beautiful creature in front of her.

Brenda stared right back, her own eyes narrowing as she scrutinized Sharon's expression. Her fingers were still wound firmly in the older woman's hair, so Sharon couldn't move away without the embarrassment of jerking at Brenda's hand like a dog on a leash. She sat and waited, poised to take flight, barely breathing.

"Now, captain," Brenda finally began, speaking even more slowly and giving Sharon that cool look she'd seen her give hostile suspects, "was that fair?" Slowly, her intense gaze calculating, she lifted that hand to the crown of Sharon's head, her fingers insinuating themselves between the thick strands to rub her scalp. "You know that wasn't what I meant."

Déjà vu all over again, Sharon had thought, looking down at her own empty, discarded wine glass. She was so tired of this constant battle; tired of being firm and resolved. Tired of being the rule-follower, the goody-two-shoes, the school marm. Tired of thinking about what Brenda Leigh _really_ wanted and knowing better than the other woman did herself.

She was just tired, damn it.

Those long, tapered fingers found a tangle in Sharon's hair and tugged sharply. The twinge of discomfort was just what the captain needed. She found her voice immediately. "Stop, Brenda. This isn't the time to relive sixth-grade slumber parties." She was proud of the flat, irritated tone of her voice.

"I know that. You think I don't know, but I do."

The blonde had put her glass down and now sat back slightly on her heels, her hands moving from the captain's hair to settle firmly on her shoulders.

"What do you know?" Sharon heard herself ask wearily.

Dark brown eyes gleamed with intelligence, challenge, and a healthy touch of fear. Brenda swallowed hard before she answered, and despite her insistence to the contrary, she suddenly sounded unsure, as if she'd been forced to confront reality for a second. "I know that you wanted to kiss me this afternoon, and Friday night too."

Sharon's answering smile expressed her fatigue more than anything else. "You're an outrageous flirt when you're drunk, Brenda Leigh."

Brenda smiled back, looking cheered by the comment. Had she been so _close_ before? Their knees were touching again. "I've been drinkin', but I'm not drunk," she countered. "I like the way you say my name. I've always thought it was a stupid beauty-queen name, but when you – Say it again."

"Chief Johnson," Sharon retaliated steadily, covering the other woman's hands with her own and lifting them away from her shoulders, which suddenly felt exposed even beneath the layers of her t-shirt and sweater.

"Don't do that," Brenda objected sharply, twisting her hands in Sharon's and linking their fingers. "You think I'm drunk now; what about this afternoon? I was drinkin' hot chocolate, which was not a controlled substance the last time I checked."

"I like bourbon and cigarettes. Sugar is your drug of choice."

"Do you always have to have an answer for everything? Can't you just let things _be_ sometimes, and see what happens? You're the most aggravatin' person I've ever –"

Sharon stopped her by standing abruptly, using their joined hands to tug the chief to her feet. "Stop," she said sternly in her best Captain Bitch voice. "Play time's over. Go to bed, chief."

Brenda pouted. "You don't like to play, captain?"

Sharon had had enough. Just for a second Brenda flinched as if she thought the captain might draw back and slap her. "I don't like this game." All traces of amusement had vanished from the older woman's eyes, and she looked – older. Older than the fifty-three years her jacket apportioned to her. "I don't think you realize it," she said quietly, her eyes searching Brenda's face. "I'll give you that; I really don't think you do. But you're being cruel."

Brenda reacted as if Sharon actually had slapped her, her eyes widening and her face flushing and then going unnaturally pale. "It's not a game," she argued. "I just meant –"

Before she could finish her thought, Sharon wrenched her hands away from the loosened grasp and turned toward the door, not sure where she was planning to go but all too aware that she had to go somewhere.

She found herself turning a full 360 degrees, Brenda's fingers twisting in the cashmere of her sweater and warping the delicate weave, as the chief yanked a stunned captain back around to face her. "I'm not playing either," the blonde insisted vehemently.

Her lips on Sharon's were cool and stiff, almost brutal in their forcefulness as she demanded what she insisted she'd wanted all along. Sharon remained rigid and absolutely motionless, and after a moment Brenda Leigh seemed to realize that this wasn't the way to go about getting it.

"Kiss me, Sharon," she'd urged, her lips still against the other woman's because she was afraid to allow the tiniest space between them; she'd never have the courage to do this again. Sharon knew; she could feel the fear coursing between them. "Please. I don't understand it, but I need you to."

It was exactly the wrong thing to say, because Sharon was sick of having to think about what Brenda wanted, what Brenda needed, what Brenda felt. _What about me?_ demanded the small part of Sharon Raydor that was still the middle child, sandwiched between two siblings and casually overlooked. She _did_ want to kiss this gorgeous, naïve, infuriating woman. Maybe she needed it. Brenda had no idea what she was asking for, no idea what she was getting herself into. Sharon would show her, she thought angrily.

It was exactly the right thing to say.

She felt the blonde's instinctive recoil when Sharon gripped her upper arms and slammed her mouth against Brenda's. _I told you so_, Sharon thought, gloating even as her anger burned brighter, fury pumping through her veins, the sound of her own rushing blood filling her ears. Brenda's lips were slightly sticky with the last traces of wine and her lipstick, that horrible pink she was so fond of, as Sharon forced her tongue past them, sweeping it commandingly into her mouth. She wanted to punish Brenda, punish her for her teasing and her flirting and her conviction, no matter what she said, that it was all just a silly game, a way to pass the time and dissipate the boredom until she got her life sorted out. Perhaps Sharon wanted to punish both of them.

_This is me_, the older woman thought, one hand roughly tilting Brenda's head at an angle to give her better access. _I am _real_, as real as you_.

Brenda whimpered, a small, lost sound that got trapped in Sharon's mouth but reached her ears anyway.

For a split second Sharon froze. _Oh, no_, she thought, suddenly bereft even as her lips hovered against Brenda's, feeling as if she'd lost something she'd never had, lost the possibility of something. _No no no no no_.

She felt those fingers winding themselves into her hair again, and then Brenda, not pushing her away, but pulling her impossibly closer, her lithe body relaxing into Sharon's, welcoming whatever the other woman chose to give her. It was humbling and horrible and Sharon found herself pathetically grateful for the arm that had snaked around her waist, supporting her.

"Oh," Brenda whispered, sounding awed, and then their tongues touched and slid together, Brenda chasing Sharon's back into her mouth. Brenda tasted of the fruity red wine and the rich chocolate frosting on the brownie she'd devoured earlier, sweet tastes that filled Sharon with the sudden, surprising, piercing desire to be sweet to her. She drew back, nibbling softly on that full lower lip, her hand sweeping over Brenda's back and down to her hip, her fingers coming to rest just above the swell of her ass. In response, the hand that wasn't caught in Sharon's hair moved to clutch spasmodically at her waist, Brenda's fingernails scrabbling beneath layers of fabric to reach hot, smooth skin, and Sharon hissed.

She knew what this was. She'd known since the moment Brenda had seen Kate Friday night. Sharon had been perfectly aware of the liquid brown eyes first widening in surprise, then darkening as a flush overspread the blonde's cheeks. She'd read the naked curiosity, the flare of arousal Brenda couldn't hide.

Chief Johnson always had to know. Until her curiosity was satisfied, she was relentless. And wasn't this cosmopolitan of her, Sharon thought, mentally sneering at both of them. Wasn't Chief Johnson progressive and worldly? She could disassemble a Glock, break a hostile suspect, work with her ex-lover, and kiss girls, all without breaking a sweat – a real Renaissance woman. Hadn't she come a long way from Georgia, y'all?

Brenda drew back slightly, her forehead creasing in a frown. "Stop that," she scolded.

"What?" asked Sharon, disoriented.

Brenda's hand came up to cup her cheek – more unexpected sweetness that made Sharon's skin sting. "Stop thinkin' about whatever it is you're thinkin' about, and let me kiss you."

Maybe it was the long fingers tracing her jaw; maybe it was the gentle smile in those dark eyes. Maybe it was just the way she said "let me," asking permission, making a request, taking the responsibility away from Sharon Raydor, who was always the responsible one. _Let me_.

Sharon had no illusions, but she "let" Brenda. She let the sofa bump the back of her knees, let the other woman nudge her back down among the cushions where she had played Trivial Pursuit with her parents and read storybooks to her children when they were small. She let Brenda cover Sharon's body with her own, feeling the softness of their breasts brushing, the way their hips and thighs aligned. She found herself in the unfamiliar, rather uncomfortable position of being the one lying back as Brenda kissed her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

"I've wanted to do this," Brenda murmured breathlessly, excitedly, as if she just couldn't wait to tell Sharon. "Oh, captain, I –"

The brunette caught her chin, redirecting her and reminding Brenda Leigh that her mouth was useful for things better than talking. Sharon didn't want Brenda to talk, and she didn't want to listen. Her skillful tongue slipped into the chief's mouth, her fingers lightly brushed her breast through the bra and tank top Brenda wore, and Brenda seemed to forget she'd had anything to say anyway.

Sharon felt her body flush and hum pleasantly. A contact high, she thought, remembering the person she'd been thirty years ago. When was the last time she'd responded like this to simple kissing and the smallest measure of innocent petting? The blood still pounded and roared in her ears, but the fury had burned white hot and spent itself. Her palms flattened against Brenda's back, one sliding up under the tank top, the other down into the loose waistband of the blonde's jeans – Why did the woman buy her clothes a size too large? It made her lithe body appear comically skinny sometimes, like a gangly girl who hadn't hit puberty – eager to feel that perfect skin. Eager to touch and consume and convince herself that this wasn't anything particularly remarkable, just the electricity generated by the encounter with an unfamiliar body.

Brenda reacted as if Sharon had jolted her with a cattle prod. She reared up and yanked the tank and hoodie – that was what Claire had told her mother it was called, a hoodie – up as far as she could without breaking the connection between their mouths, and Sharon's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in amusement.

"Impatient?"

"Afraid you're gonna change your mind," Brenda gasped.

"My daughter is in the next room."

"She's a grown-up."

"She's my daughter."

Brenda lowered her full weight to the captain's body again, and Sharon wished her own t-shirt and sweater were out of the way so she could feel that pale skin on hers. She contented herself with running her hands up Brenda's sides, over her rib cage, which made the chief gasp and rock against her.

"We have to stop. We can't do this here."

"Come to my room with me."

"No." Sharon knew they were nowhere near ready for this, and Brenda would've known too, she thought, if she'd allowed herself half a second to think.

"What, are you embarrassed? Claire already thinks I'm your girlfriend. That's why she left us that enormous bed in there."

Sharon's hands smoothed over Brenda's stomach as if they had a mind of their own. How in the world did the woman eat as much candy and exercise as little as she did, and stay so thin? The older woman usually wasn't a fan of willowy, but apparently there were exceptions. She traced the same path over and over, up and down, down and up, feeling Brenda's abdominal muscles jump. God, she was beautiful. Just looking at her burned Sharon up, and it was all effortless on the blonde's part. It wasn't fair. Nothing about this situation was fair; that was life.

Suddenly the captain found herself looking up into very determined, very focused eyes. This was the way Chief Johnson looked at a perp, and it made the captain's stomach wriggle unpleasantly. Brenda's hands went to the hem of her t-shirt and sweater, grabbing both together. "Off," she demanded urgently.

Sharon caught her wrists, trapping them between their bodies, and Brenda rocked against their hands, her own hips driving them downward between Sharon's legs where she knew she was swollen and wet and ready despite her underwear and the thick denim; and _God_ she wanted to touch Brenda, wanted to feel that the other woman was just as hot and slick and eager and it was all for her.

"No," Sharon said, her voice thick and rough.

Brenda moved so the heel of her hand ground against Sharon's pubic bone, Brenda's weight and Sharon's own hand keeping it there. "Why not?" she demanded, panting raggedly.

Summoning all her reserves, the older woman sat up suddenly, throwing Brenda off balance. "I'm not sure why I have to be the one to remind you of this," she said, her voice low and dangerous despite her own stuttering breath, "but _you are married_."

The blonde blanched as if Sharon had finally hauled off and backhanded her.

"It's a fact," Sharon continued.

Brenda looked down at their still-joined hands. "It is."

"As I recall, you don't get a free pass just because your extramarital fling is with a person of the same gender."

Brenda abruptly yanked her hands away. "Now you're bein' mean."

"That's a habit of yours: to accuse people of being mean when they confront you with an unpleasant fact." Sharon sighed and rubbed at her forehead, allowing her shoulders to slump. "Go to bed, Brenda. You'll see things differently in the morning."

She'd felt Brenda's gaze on her for an intense moment before the younger woman turned and scurried off to the bedroom. When the door was securely closed, Sharon allowed herself to collapse onto the sofa with a plaintive little moan.

Brenda would see things differently in the morning. She'd open her eyes and see this situation for what it was; see _Sharon_ for what she was. There would be embarrassment, anger…

The captain had glanced down at the magazine rack by her foot. It held issues of _Time_ and _Reader's Digest_ from God only knew how long ago, and without her reading glasses, the letters on the covers blurred together into indistinct blobs. How ironic, she thought, that she should be the one to see things so clearly, while Brenda bumbled around in willful blindness.

Sharon hadn't allowed herself to dwell on how good it had felt, even if just for those few brief moments, to know that Brenda Leigh Johnson _wanted_ her.

The rhythm of her running shoes faltered, and Sharon ground to a halt, bending at the waist to brace her palms on her knees as she breathed deeply, the intense exercise and the vivid memories swirling together to leave her weak and breathless.

Yes, Sunday night had been fairly disastrous; Sharon had certainly let things go too far. Still and all, the situation, and some sort of working relationship with Chief Johnson, might have been salvageable if they hadn't both behaved like a pair of masochistic maniacs on Monday.


	13. Chapter 13

1.

Brenda had insisted she would call, promised she would call. _No, you won't_, Sharon had thought calmly, certainly, doing her best to ignore the way the edges of her heart cramped as the two of them had sat in the deputy chief's driveway early that Monday evening, Sharon looking at the lamplight spilling out the front window of the cheerful, lived-in bungalow. The grass needed to be cut.

She hadn't, of course.

Logically Sharon knew it was much better this way, and after nearly two weeks the captain also knew that the shred of hope she'd never admitted, even to herself, that she was carrying around with her had disintegrated. That was better, too; her insides no longer seized up every time her phone vibrated or she saw that she had a missed call.

Sharon didn't think too much about Brenda Leigh. She thought about how she was still at the center of the world's longest O.I.S. investigation; she thought about wiping that smarmy smile off Taylor's face with her fist; she thought about that bastard Will Pope and his "Who, me?" puppy-dog eyes and dopey expression. She thought about the coming holidays, about how all her kids really just wanted money for Christmas so she didn't have any shopping to do, and about how little she wanted to spend Christmas trapped in the Park City time-share with Kitty.

And she ran. She ran, and ran, and ran.

She signed up for a 10K, the first one she'd entered in several years. It felt good to be running again, at least; it felt good to push her body and find, with a sense of delighted pride, that at 53 it was still familiar and comfortable and hers, and it could still do many of the things it had done at thirty. Not all, of course, but enough.

Claire came home for a weekend visit. She didn't have much to say about what was going on up in Santa Cruz, but told her mother that she'd managed to catch up at school and thought she would do reasonably well, but not great, in her classes; and she mentioned that she was considering moving into a different apartment.

Mother and daughter ran together.

Claire wanted to talk about Sharon and Brenda, and after initially biting her daughter's head off for evincing such prurient fascination, Sharon had sighed, dropped her shoulders, and flatly muttered, "Sorry."

The young woman had shrugged. "You pretty much just answered my question anyway."

There was no use denying it. "You'll make a fine lawyer, kid."

Sunday afternoon Sharon stood in the driveway, leaning in the open door of the jeep as Claire prepared to head back up the coast. "I'm sorry about Rachel," she said gently. "But maybe it is for the best if you move out."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry about Brenda. That's probably for the best too, since she's married."

Sharon opened her mouth to protest, perhaps to insist that nothing had happened between herself and the deputy chief, but Claire impatiently waved the words away.

"Don't, Mom. The two of you were acting so weird on Monday that I would've gone back home just to get away from you. Besides, if you seriously want to maintain plausible deniability, you might want to consider soundproofing the bedrooms at the cottage."

Her daughter had left her standing there with a red face and a dismayed little smirk. She really would make a fine lawyer.

_Please don't call, Brenda. I need to be right about this one._

She supposed Claire's perception was accurate and the two older women had behaved strangely on the Monday morning at the cottage, but there hadn't been any overt drama, just the awkwardness that inevitably stemmed from the fact that they were both laboring so hard to avoid morning-after-the-night-before awkwardness. They'd eaten breakfast, packed the car, done all the usual things. Sharon had had a brief, whispered conversation with her daughter, punctuated by a tight hug, and then the captain and the deputy chief had headed back to L.A.

Outwardly the drive was a mirror image of the one they'd made Saturday; only the atmosphere in the car, the undercurrent of a completely different variety of tension, made it feel worlds away. Still, Sharon was very good at maintaining a calm, cool façade. That was something you learned in the L.A.P.D., particularly in Internal Affairs. She was determined to be bigger and better than this drive; bigger and better than that tawdry, ill-conceived little encounter the night before; bigger and better than her colossal lapse in judgment. Sharon Raydor was above all of it.

Fortunately for both of them, Brenda Leigh was far too stubborn to be the first to bring up the issue, so the drive passed quietly, the interior of the car filled with the strains of Chopin because Sharon not-so-secretly hoped the piano music would lull her companion to sleep and allow her to breathe freely. They exchanged the occasional comment about the weather or the scenery or someone's flagrant inability to drive a motor vehicle. They stopped for lunch and for Brenda to buy ding-dongs or ho-hos or whatever the hell those things were that she was always eating. It was all very civilized, as long as you weren't attuned to the silent game of one-up-womanship.

As they'd approached Los Angeles, Sharon had cautiously begun to relax the slightest bit. She was going to win this round.

Brenda must have sensed the letting down of her guard, because as they passed the exit for the last rest area before their route merged into the clots and clogs of the city's perpetually slow-moving traffic, the deputy chief suddenly demanded, "Stop. Stop the car."

Sharon looked askance, but reasoned that it was easier to cater to Brenda's whims than to argue. The last thing she needed was for the deputy chief to wet her pants and Sharon's upholstery on the freeway.

She shouldn't have stopped the car. But she had.

So now she ran, and she knew she was running away from a Monday evening in an innocuous, pot-holed parking lot north of the Hollywood hills.

Brenda hadn't called. Sharon was relieved.

2.

Brenda Leigh had promised Sharon she would call her. She hadn't called.

Brenda didn't particularly like to talk on the phone anyway; and what was there to say? She'd already tried to have this talk once, on the way back from Santa Cruz. Surely that meant the ball was in the captain's court now.

She remembered the way Sharon had looked at her once she'd parked the car at the rest stop, impatient, uncomfortable. "Well, are you going in to the bathroom, or do you need to think about it first?" she'd demanded edgily.

Brenda had turned to face her, her features uncharacteristically rigid. "I don't need to go to the bathroom," she'd said, but unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car.

Sharon left her standing there, looking down on the outskirts of the city, for a good five minutes before she also got out of the car, and Brenda had heard the older woman sigh heavily as she slammed the car door. "Come on, chief." The blonde looked over to find Sharon rubbing absently at the center of her forehead, as if attempting to rub out a headache, and her green eyes were shadowed. She looked as if she hadn't slept well the night before.

_Good_, Brenda thought vengefully. She hoped the captain had tossed and turned all night on that worn sofa. She hoped she had an aching back to remind her exactly how old she was and a crick in her neck to accompany the headache she'd never admit she had.

"No," Brenda had heard herself say abruptly, rocking her weight onto one leg and widening her stance. "No, _captain_, I'm not ready to go yet."

"We'll hit rush hour traffic," the brunette returned flatly, and Brenda had clenched her fists.

"Are we just not gonna talk about it?" the deputy chief demanded, her pent-up frustration and anxiety exploding in a rush of sound.

Sharon had stared stonily at her from across the roof of the car.

"Captain," Brenda had resumed more steadily, with great restraint, "_Sharon_. I think we should discuss what happened last night."

The older woman's gaze hadn't deviated from Brenda's, and her eyes remained opaque. "What is there to discuss?" she'd replied in that clipped, businesslike tone. "It was… an aberration."

"An aberration," Brenda repeated, anger lacing her incredulity. "So you're just gonna pretend it didn't happen?"

"Yes, chief, I think that's the best course of action," Sharon had answered steadily, her eyes scanning the valley below them, where the first shadows of twilight were beginning to fall. "It certainly never should have happened."

"No," Brenda had cut in so sharply that Sharon pinned her with a frigid look and her mouth tightened with annoyance and trepidation. "No, you don't get to do that right now. You don't get to retreat behind the façade of the ice-bitch of FID."

"It's not a façade."

"No," the blonde agreed frankly. "But she's not the one I want to talk to right now."

Sharon glanced down at the ground. "Well, she's the one you've got," she replied, her voice quieter.

"Fine." Brenda folded her arms and glared. "As long as she understands I'm talkin' to the other Sharon and I know she's listening."

Sharon had swallowed, her eyes on the traffic snaking along the highway below them.

"Look, Sharon, what happened last night –"

The other woman wheeled toward Brenda suddenly, stalking around to the passenger side of the car and lancing Brenda with her intense glare. "What _did_ happen?"

Brenda stared, caught off balance by the question, which Sharon's tone telegraphed was not a rhetorical one. "We – we kissed," she answered lamely, words that did little to encapsulate the intensity of those moments of heat and lust and the relief that Sharon Raydor was finally, finally touching her in the way that, the deputy chief acknowledged, she had wanted her to for a long time, much longer than the last few weeks.

Sharon scowled. "You goaded me, and I reacted badly."

For once completely unable to control her expression, Brenda gaped. "Badly?" she demanded furiously, her voice shooting high, almost squeaking.

"Unwisely."

The blonde pressed her lips together. No, she thought, unpleasant, prickly heat flooding her body and leaving her fighting the urge to squirm as if fire ants were crawling up her legs, biting the vulnerable flesh of her calves. _No_. Last night had not been another competition, another struggle for dominance. She'd goaded Sharon, yes, had been goading her all weekend; but she refused to let the other woman decree that that was _all_ it had been.

She stepped toward Sharon, forcing her back against the side of the car to avoid touching Brenda, and felt a small measure of satisfaction that it was the captain who had to give way. "You wanted me," the chief seethed, breathing out hotly against Sharon's cheek, and the captain flinched, her mouth tight with displeasure. "You _wanted_ it to happen."

And this time it was Brenda Leigh who crushed Sharon's mouth beneath her own; Brenda Leigh who had something to prove as she roughly threaded her fingers through Sharon's hair, firmly holding her head; Brenda Leigh's fingers that skittered across Sharon's hip, pushing her tightly against the car and unceremoniously pressing one of her legs between the taller woman's.

"You want me now," the blonde insisted furiously when the stubborn woman refused to respond, and then she thrust her tongue between Sharon's lips. Brenda tasted coffee and mint and tightened her grip on the captain's hip, squeezing her own eyes shut until she saw bursts of white light, aware that she was pleading even as she demanded. _You want me, don't you? Don't leave me out here on this limb all by myself. Come out here with me. The limb will probably break under our weight and crash to the ground, and we'll be shattered into pieces, but fall with me._

It was the underlying supplication that did it.

Sharon had made a low, pained sound in the back of her throat, and then she forced Brenda's tongue back, following it with her own. Her hands settled on the younger woman's ass and yanked that lithe body against her own, so that even while Sharon was still pressed up against the car, pinned in place, there wasn't a shadow of a doubt about who was in control now.

The kiss itself was forceful, almost brutal, but Sharon's lips were soft, and Brenda's grip on her long, dark hair loosened as she leaned more of her weight into the captain, pressing their bodies together from chest to knee. Sharon's arms wrapped tightly around her then, the hand at Brenda's waist squeezing hard as their open mouths met over and over in quick, frantic bursts. Their tongues slid together wetly and their teeth clashed, and Brenda knew her lips were going to be swollen, probably even bruised, after this, but the thought only made her kiss the other woman more enthusiastically. When had she last kissed like this? When had she last been kissed like this, with such devastating rawness and urgency? It was light years away from the perfunctory greetings she and Fritz exchanged on a daily basis, and almost as far from the sweet, comfortable kisses they shared when they made love.

This forcibly reminded Brenda that she wasn't supposed to be kissing anyone other than her husband, certainly not Sharon Raydor, someone she wasn't even supposed to like, but even as the thought horrified and disgusted her it sent a thrill coursing through her body. That was followed by a flush of mortification as she realized she had canted her pelvis forward, rocking almost violently against the older woman's muscular thigh, spurred on by the sudden intense throb between her legs.

Sharon groaned into her open mouth, the sound strangled, and when Brenda tried to draw back, the captain's fingers tightened bruisingly, encouraging a slow, rhythmic rocking.

"Ooh," Brenda gasped, breathless and dismayed even as she squirmed, the thick seam of her worn Levi's pressing painfully against her clit, too hard and not hard enough all at once. She felt her body's hot moisture rushing out to coat her, soaking through her underwear, and gasped again, bewildered and still a little shamed by the speed intensity of her body's response to this woman, to her soft curves and demanding kisses. One of her hands slipped from Sharon's hair to find her shoulder, and she used the leverage to shove the taller woman more forcefully against the car, making her arch her back and bare her long, graceful neck.

Brenda opened her eyes as wide as she could, drinking in the sight of her captain with her head thrown back, her eyes also wide open and staring up into the twilight sky. Her pale, perfect skin was laid bare; Brenda could see her pulse pounding at the side of her neck, belying the quiet tension of her body. The blonde suddenly wanted to sink her teeth into Sharon's flesh, to taste her, to feel the thick rushing of her blood with each beat of her heart. She contented herself with a sharp nip and a long, soothing stroke of her tongue up to Sharon's jaw, and the captain made that harsh, guttural sound again as she fisted her hand in Brenda's hair, yanking mercilessly, bringing their open mouths back together.

Sharon drew Brenda's lower lip into the wet heat of her mouth and sucked hard, her sharp teeth abrading the tender flesh, and as the blonde struggled to kiss her back – if this could be called kissing, this frantic melding of their mouths – one of her hands returned to Brenda's ass and cupped a cheek, squeezing firmly. The younger woman jerked against her thigh again, upsetting the regular rhythm Sharon had coaxed her into maintaining; and then Brenda felt the insistent press of Sharon's fingers as they traced the cleft of her ass through the denim. As her nails dragged over the lower curve, Sharon twisted so that her fingers pressed flat and hard against the part of the chief that was wet and open and aching for penetration, driving the thick seam of Brenda's jeans upward, as close as she could get to inside the woman's body, while her palm pressed steadily, urging her cheeks and outer lips apart. Brenda cried out in a combination of startled pleasure and fear as she stumbled, the movement of Sharon's hand causing her to slide her feat wider apart, and loose gravel making her lose her balance.

The brunette's other hand splayed over the chief's spine and her embrace tightened. "I've got you," she assured, the words spoken against Brenda's swollen lips, as she drove her thigh forward and pressed Brenda's weight down against it.

"Oh," Brenda whimpered pathetically, her eyes impossibly wide, unable to stop herself from twisting her hips, seeking more friction as she rocked against Sharon in a driving, jerky rhythm. Her face flamed; she was still embarrassed. She couldn't deny the tightness low in her belly that told her she was close to coming, and she was half-dazed and horrified by how quickly it was happening – Sharon must think she was depraved.

Maybe she was, Brenda considered. She was certainly desperate, her body needy and aroused in the worst way, her breath stuttering through her clenched teeth. She had been coiled so tightly since Saturday morning, when she was roughly yanked from the cocoon of her fantasy, and spending three days in this woman's near-constant presence had done nothing to soothe her. They kept circling one another like wild animals, getting close and then backing away, wary and skittish. She needed this so badly, needed it from Sharon, had to have it, have _her_ –

"Is this what you wanted?" Sharon demanded, her breath hot and quick on Brenda's cheek, her tone one of command. Her fingers pressed harder, faster, and Brenda squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed by the squeaking sound she couldn't suppress.

"No. Look at me." When the chief failed to comply immediately, the captain's hand stilled, and Brenda's eyes flew open in protest to find those intense green eyes glittering at her from scant inches away. "Look at me," Sharon repeated, fingers beginning to move again, teasing, as the blonde's eyes remained focused on hers. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," Brenda gasped, her hips bucking as she rode Sharon's thigh and thrust against her busy fingers, too far gone now to care because her whole body was tingling. She clutched the taller woman's shoulder, her hair, her arm, and realized that they were both trembling. "Yes, yes, Sharon – noo," she interrupted herself, almost wailing, because she was going to come and she was desperate for it, desperate for her captain to make it happen for her, but she didn't want this just to be about her. She wanted to give this to Sharon too, to share the bursting pleasure that refused to be denied or postponed, but she couldn't. her eyes closed again because she couldn't keep them open, and Sharon bit at her earlobe before encouraging, "Come on, chief. Come for me. I've got you."

_Come for me._

Maybe she was giving something to Sharon after all, or maybe that was self-serving justification; either way, pulsations of heat radiated outward from her core, and there – right _there_ –

As the first overwhelming wave of her orgasm swept over her, Brenda sucked in a great, soundless lungful of dry, dusty air. She had lost all control of her body, but Sharon was holding her up, using the car door at her back to support both of them. Brenda's legs shook, her muscles still spasming as pleasure raced outward to the nerve endings in her extremities, and she managed to throw her arms around Sharon's neck. Her breath rushed out in something like a sob that she muffled against the crook of the other woman's neck.

Sharon held her wordlessly, unmoving, while Brenda's breathing slowed and her legs gradually ceased their trembling. Brenda could feel Sharon's heart pounding, her pulse thumping against the side of her neck where the blonde's lips rested, but her voice was steady when she at last said, "There, Brenda. You're okay. You're better now." Her hands moved to meet at the middle of the blonde's back and rubbed soothingly, one above and one just below Brenda's bra strap, and Brenda felt herself begin to tremble again at the realization of what she'd just done.

She'd just committed adultery.

Hadn't she?

Sharon had made her come.

But they hadn't actually had _sex_. They were both fully clothed. (She had just come while fully clothed. Didn't that only happen in those mass-market paperbacks you could buy in the grocery-store checkout lane?)

Where did you draw the line? What counted as sex? Did it count if you both had an orgasm, or did you have to remove clothing, or did there have to be penetration, or –

Sharon hadn't come.

Brenda tried to debate the intricacies of the moral issue, but her mind hung up on that last point, leaving her feeling both guilty and strangely incensed. She hadn't made Sharon come. She hadn't even gotten to touch her; not even a good through-the-clothing grope, for heaven's sake.

That suggested a power imbalance of a sort that the chief didn't like at all. It also made her feel more vulnerable than she had when she was clinging to the other woman in the throes of orgasm.

She lifted her head, not enough to look into Sharon's eyes but enough to kiss the corner of her mouth. "Thank you," she heard herself whisper huskily.

A few seconds of silence followed, as if Sharon were deciding whether or not to be irritated by Brenda's display of gratitude. Then she murmured, "Sure, chief. Any time." Brenda heard the amused smirk in her voice and felt it against her lips, but before she could consider the way that woman was mocking her again, Sharon's palm cupped her cheek, aligning their mouths for a kiss.

The caress of her lips was gentle and thorough, calming, unhurried, and it took Brenda's breath all over again. A whole different kind of ache filled her chest, and to tamp it down she fumbled with the hem of Sharon's shirt, her fingertips just managing to graze soft, smooth skin, cold from being pressed against the cold metal of the car.

"Stop," the captain murmured, the words as gentle but firm as her kiss. She reached back and caught Brenda's hand, drawing it away.

"But that's not fair. Let me –"

"I'm not keeping score, Brenda Leigh," Sharon interrupted, which almost certainly meant she was, as she pushed herself up to her full height and stepped away from the car. "We need to go."

Brenda had frowned, confused and trying not to feel hurt around the edges. Didn't Sharon _want_ her to touch her? The blonde knew she wasn't the only one who had been incredibly turned on just minutes ago. Also, the prospect of owing anything to Sharon Raydor made her profoundly uneasy.

"Captain –"

"We are in a public place, chief," Sharon pointed out, apparently calm, and before Brenda could argue that said public place was deserted, a station wagon pulled into the parking lot and the two women watched as a family of four emerged.

"Let's go," Sharon said, opening the driver's side door and beckoning impatiently, and Brenda scowled as she opened her own door. Typical Sharon: she just had to be contrary.

Less than an hour later Sharon had pulled into Brenda's driveway and put the car in park, but she hadn't turned off the engine. Brenda cautiously looked over at her and found that Sharon's gaze was fixed steadily on the front windows of the bungalow. From the living room a lamp, set on a timer, glowed softly, not providing enough illumination to reveal anything within. The captain looked like she was miles away.

"I'll call you," Brenda said at last.

Sharon didn't look away from the window. "It would probably be better if you didn't," she said in that quiet, toneless FID voice of hers.

Brenda swallowed, following the other woman's line of sight to her own cozy front window. Yes, it would almost certainly be better.

She seized Sharon's cool fingers, squeezing them briefly but hard. "I'll call you," she repeated firmly. "Bye, Sharon."

Those eyes finally sought hers, but the expression in them was an utter mystery. "Good night, chief."

With that Brenda had grabbed her duffle bag from the back seat and walked up to her front door, but she lingered, key in hand, until Sharon had driven away. Then she squared her shoulders and went inside.

And she hadn't called.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Bookends**

Brenda Leigh had promised Sharon she would call her. Brenda wasn't fazed by lying to a suspect in order to extract a confession, but she hated breaking a promise to someone she cared about, and she cared about Sharon.

But she hadn't called.

At first, once she'd gotten over the initial impact of stepping through the front door and being greeted by the savory scents that told her Fritz was home and making dinner, just like this was any other night and his wife hadn't been shattering in another woman's arms less than an hour earlier – once she'd walked into the kitchen and observed the way his white t-shirt shifted over the familiar planes of his back as he efficiently moved around the stove – it had been shockingly easy not to call Sharon, even to dismiss all thoughts of calling her.

Brenda had thrown herself into her daily routine and her marriage with an enthusiasm she hadn't exhibited outside the murder room in a very long time, if ever, desperate to immerse herself in the normality of it all: losing her reading glasses in the cavernous depths of her purse, half listening to Flynn and Provenza bicker and banter, asking Fritz how his day had gone and relishing the comforting weight of his arm slung across her hips as they drifted off to sleep. She felt like she'd been awakened from a nightmare just in the nick of time. She was horrified by herself, by what she had very nearly done (because the flirting and the kissing and, yes, even the coming were in a moral gray area, not black and white, not actual sex, not exactly cheating). She had danced right up to a precipice, had stood with one foot aloft, poised above nothing but empty air, but she hadn't fallen over. For the first few days, even the thought of ever seeing that cliff-edge again, much less coming near it, made her nauseated and dizzy, as if she'd just discovered a paralyzing fear of heights.

Like an addict in the first revulsion from her excesses, mind and body revolting together against the abuse, Brenda Leigh had sworn off her drug of choice and felt confident in her ability to maintain her resolution. If she never saw Sharon Raydor again it would be too soon.

And then, after those first few days had elapsed, she found herself lying awake next to her sleeping husband, his heavy arm pinning her to the mattress, and that was when the tantalizing image of those serious dark green eyes, the phantom whisper of thick, wavy hair against her cheek, the possibility of a very different arm looped around her waist, supporting her rather than confining, began to play around the edges of her consciousness. Brenda thought then about picking up the phone, but only in those wee, small hours when she knew she couldn't actually follow through, so it was safe.

And then she began to think of it, of her, at odd moments, mulling over the possibility as she drove to work or sat alone in her office during a brief lull. Still she didn't let herself pick up the phone. She was good. Fundamentally, Brenda was a good girl.

Suddenly twelve days had passed and she couldn't call; she had let too much time pass. Her brief window had slammed shut.

That was when Brenda realized she'd been fooling herself all along. She _had_ to talk to Sharon. The only reason she'd managed to resist as long as she had was that the possibility had been there, hovering just within reach. She retrieved her cell phone from her bag, scrolled to Sharon's contact info ("Raydor, Captain S."), placed the phone squarely in the center of her desk, and sat there staring at it. The smallness of her life pressed in on her as if the walls of her office had actually moved.

What was she going to do? She couldn't just call the older woman out of the blue; that much was obvious. She seriously doubted the captain would be thrilled by the gesture. Brenda snorted to herself. No, knowing Sharon, she wouldn't even answer.

Brenda had no idea what she would actually say to Sharon, but that was of secondary concern right now. Primary goal: make contact. Her shrewd eyes narrowed as she considered. She could have one of the boys call Sharon up and invite her down on official business.

No. That hadn't worked last time; it would be utterly transparent now.

The ways of the universe are mysterious, though, and the solution to Brenda's dilemma came from possibly the last source she'd imagined: Commander Russell Taylor.

"Yeah, I'll check on that for you today, chief," he said in answer to some request she had made of him. "But it'll have to be after my meeting with Captain Raydor."

Brenda froze standing before her open closet door; she'd run home to change out of a blood-spattered skirt, even though Gabriel had assured her the blood hardly showed against the bright print. "Captain Raydor?" she repeated inquisitively.

"Yeah. I've got her comin' in at four to have a little chat about her O.I.S."

Brenda bit her lip, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Well, then," she said quickly, in a tone that brooked no disagreement, "you'll just have to push the captain back to five – No, 5:30. I need you to find those certificates of deposit for me before the close of business today."

"Chief –"

"For heaven's sake, commander, it's not like she has anything better to do. She's just sittin' at home," Brenda exploded impatiently. "Reschedule with Raydor!" As she hung up, she bent to rifle through the closet. Where was her black skirt, the one that hugged her hips just so? And those pumps that Sharon had complimented her on –

"Hey, babe. What are you doing home in the middle of the day?"

Brenda smiled up a little too brightly at Fritz's reflection as she shimmied the clean skirt up her hips. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Dropping off my dry-cleaning, and I thought I'd grab some lunch – But since you're here, you wanna go out for a bite?"

The deputy chief studied her image, smoothing her bright pink blouse and shaking her hair out of its ponytail. Her pulse skipped. She felt refreshed, rejuvenated, like she had a delicious secret whose secrecy only made it that much more delicious. In short, she was unexpectedly cheerful for the first time in days. "Sounds great," she chirped. "You can drive. How 'bout Mexican?"

"Sure, if that's what you feel like."

What she felt like, Brenda thought, was herself again, for the first time in about twelve days. She had a goal, she had a strategy, and she had a plan.

After lunch the afternoon flew by with amazing speed. Brenda's mind was clear again; she was paying attention, able to concentrate on their current case. She felt like her blood was flowing again, her brain firing on all circuits – everything was going to be fine. She could already see how ridiculous it had been to try to avoid Sharon. After all, they were friends, and neither of them had many of those to spare, Brenda thought, smiling to herself as she went about her business. It would be absurd to throw that away because of a – well, an indiscretion.

She felt so buoyant, so positive, that she had to keep reminding herself that the captain knew nothing about any of these latest developments, and very possibly might be slightly less than thrilled to find herself face-to-face with the deputy chief.

When Brenda passed Commander Taylor in the corridor, she again demanded to know the whereabouts of the certificates of deposit she needed for her investigation, and casually added, insouciantly dropping consonants right and left, "Cap'n Raydor comin' this evenin'?"

"At 5:30," the commander replied tightly, clearly displeased at having had to alter his schedule at the behest of the deputy chief.

Brenda smirked to herself when her back was turned. She'd spent a lot of time observing Sharon lately, and she thought she was getting better at it. 5:30 might not be good for Taylor, but it was great for Brenda Leigh, because Sharon would get out of her meeting just in time for Brenda to insist that they go out for dinner.

To discuss official police business, of course.

Later she would blame it on the fact that she'd been thinking of the dark-haired captain even as half her mind rooted around for strategies to yield the all-important confession, her mouth running ahead of her as she monologue to Gabriel and Flynn, reeling off a list of tasks for the boys to perform before they brought Maria Rios in for questioning early the next morning. In any case, when the three of them turned the sharp corner on the way to Major Crimes, Brenda barreling ahead as usual, and the chief slammed into soft curves and the finest quality gray wool, she couldn't stop the delighted expression that broke over her face, lighting her whole fierce countenance like the sun slashing through storm clouds.

"Captain!" she exclaimed as one of Sharon's hands caught her elbow, steadying them both. The deputy chief vaguely noted Gabriel and Flynn bending awkwardly to gather the papers that had gone flying to litter the corridor like giant confetti. "You're back!"

The older woman automatically smoothed her skirt as she took a small step back. Her face gave nothing away. "Hello, chief. No, not back, but I am here for the moment."

Brenda's forehead furrowed with her exaggerated frown. "What do you mean, for the moment? Commander Taylor didn't call you in to tell you he's cleared you?"

Sharon smiled tightly, her eyes devoid of humor. "No. The commander and I have been discussing the projected timeline of his investigation, given the – special circumstances – surrounding the victim's eventual death."

"With which you had nothin' to do," Brenda pointed out. Even though the captain was speaking as smoothly as ever, the younger woman read the anger and frustration in her tone, and hoped more of it was directed at Taylor than at herself. "And?"

"The commander doesn't expect to complete his investigation until after the first of the year," Sharon replied with absolutely no inflection, her eyes focused somewhere over Brenda's left shoulder, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

Brenda's own jaw dropped. "Well, for heaven's sake!"

"Indeed. Well, I'll be going before I'm escorted out of the building this time. Chief. Gentlemen."

"Ah, captain, wait," the chief called sharply as Sharon turned away. "I need to speak with you, please."

Sharon pivoted and pursed her lips very slightly but otherwise didn't react.

Brenda's confidence wavered slightly. "On official business," she added hastily.

_Yeah, right_, said the older woman's expression. "Very well," said her lips, stiffly.

The blonde gestured grandly with the file folder she happened to be holding. "After you, captain."

Sharon preceded the chief down the hall, with the lieutenant and the detective following five steps behind Brenda. "At least we're fee from the scourge of FID for a couple more months," Gabriel murmured cheerfully to Flynn as Raydor stepped into the murder room. Brenda started guiltily. No, she reassured herself, they hadn't noticed that she'd been precisely studying the things Sharon's pencil skirt did to the swell of her ass – especially not Flynn, who'd been too busy engaging in the same activity.

Recovering herself, the chief glared at her subordinate. "Whatever your personal feelings about Captain Raydor, she did nothin' wrong and she's being punished. Your friend Commander Taylor ought to be ashamed of himself," she retorted snippily, and sashayed into the murder room in the captain's wake.

She pretended she didn't hear Flynn say sotto voce to Gabriel, "Gee, I didn't know we'd wandered into a meeting of the Sharon Raydor fan-club." In the future she'd have to be careful about her attitude toward the other woman in front of the others (although Sharon _had_ saved her life), but right now the object of her thoughts was awaiting her in her inner office, her arms folded tightly, her body at rigid attention.

Brenda pulled the door to behind her and closed the blinds before quietly murmuring, "Thanks for coming."

One perfect brow arched toward Sharon's hairline. "I didn't have much of a choice, did I, chief? But you're welcome."

"I wanted to tell you how ridiculous I think Commander Taylor's bein' about this whole thing. I can't understand why he'd want to keep you suspended, but if there's anything I can do, captain, you have my full support."

Sharon nodded stiffly. "Thank you, chief." She didn't bother adding that any "help" Brenda gave would almost certainly be more of a hindrance. "But you didn't have to summon me to your office on 'official business' to tell me that."

Brenda hesitated. The sharply tailored woman standing before her looked and sounded so exactly like the ultra-professional captain she'd known for the past few years, polite but distant and faintly contemptuous, that the chief couldn't read her at all. The younger woman's heart gave a single hard throb of trepidation. Where was Sharon? She had to be in there, didn't she? She couldn't just have vanished.

Although she'd had twelve days to complete the process.

"Didn't I?" Brenda asked at last, after a weighty pause, her mouth turning down at the corners. "I think I did."

The brunette responded by staring fixedly at the corner of the deputy chief's desk.

Brenda's gaze darted toward the clock. "It's after six," she said softly. "Have dinner with me. Fritz is going to an AA meeting," she appended, and Sharon winced.

That should've been enough to send the practical captain straight back home, and yet it wasn't. "Dinner," she echoed cautiously. "Just dinner."

The blonde smiled thinly. "I promise not to jump you in the parkin' garage."

Sharon sent Brenda a sneer that plainly telegraphed what she thought of the likelihood of a repeat performance. "Something quick and nearby."

It was Brenda's turn to roll her eyes as she hoisted her handbag. "Why, you got somewhere to be?"

Green eyes fixed her with that expression of strained, exasperated patience that Brenda knew so well.

"Fine. You want sushi? Fritz hates sushi."

Sharon's jaw tightened, and Brenda made a mental note to stop mentioning her husband, the man she'd promised to have and to hold, to love, honor, etc., etc.

"Let's go." The older woman turned on her heel and Brenda followed her across the murder room, which was rapidly emptying, and onto the elevator, which mercifully was nowhere near empty.

"Where do you want to eat?" Sharon asked as dual pairs of heels reverberated off the concrete floor and walls of the parking deck.

"Oh, that place – you know, it starts with an M – not far from your house –" Brenda fumbled.

"Maru. Okay. I'll see you there."

"Well, no." Brenda bit her lip, and as Sharon unlocked her car, she shot the chief a look of mildly curious impatience. "I need a ride."

The captain's lips compressed. "Where's your car?"

"At home."

Sharon said nothing as she slid behind the wheel, but Brenda heard the hollow click of the passenger-side door unlocking.

Sharon thought Brenda had planned this, but she hadn't, not really. An opportunity had just presented itself and she'd seized it.

The older woman drove them to the restaurant in tense silence that Brenda wasn't quite brave or foolish enough to break. The instant Sharon turned the key in the ignition Brenda grabbed for her seatbelt, eager to escape into the less charged atmosphere of the sushi bar, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Sharon's hand covered hers.

"Wait," the captain said imperatively. Her eyes flashed in the car's dim interior. "What the hell are we doing here, Brenda?"

Brenda blinked once, her heart slamming into her ribcage at Sharon's fierce abruptness. "D-dinner," she stammered. "You said you'd have –"

Sharon didn't give her the opportunity to finish the sentence. She leaned across the console separating them, the hand that had been holding Brenda's in place moving up to cup the blonde's delicate jaw, and firmly covered Brenda's lips with her own mouth – that warm, sweet, sinful mouth. For just a second Brenda went rigid with surprise, and then she melted like an ice cube tossed into boiling water. Even as her heart beat harder, faster, the chief felt herself going limp with relief. She'd spent the past twelve days seemingly doing little else but second-guessing what had happened between the two of them, not just Sunday night at Sharon's beach house and Monday afternoon in some parking lot, but over the past month. Was she romanticizing the connection she felt to Sharon Raydor, the desire to be around her, to listen to her talk, to watch the colors shifting in her eyes? Had her memory exaggerated the heat, the chemistry between them, the incredible surge of desire Brenda felt just from being in Sharon's presence, seeing her formidable calf muscles flex when she wore those severe heels, watching her hair shimmer, breathing in the spicy scent that clung to her skin beneath soap and perfume?

No, Brenda realized as her lips glided seamlessly over Sharon's. Memory was but a pale imitation of the living, breathing woman in her – well, not in her arms, but as close as the two of them could get in the front seat of Sharon's car.

Sharon's lips felt like living silk; that was the only description the deputy chief could think of, as trite as it was. Fritz's mouth was mobile and supple, and Brenda had always thought of his kisses as soft. But this – this was something different entirely, this kissing Sharon. The slick glide of Sharon's lipstick-coated lips against her own struck sparks that crackled throughout Brenda's body, and she greedily laid her hand along the captain's cheek and jaw so she could feel as much of Sharon's wonderful, smooth skin as possible. Sharon's tongue slipped past her lips, meeting no resistance from Brenda Leigh, who gave herself up to the full-body experience of being kissed by this woman.

The older woman's tongue explored the recesses of Brenda's mouth, unhurried but far from shy, stopping occasionally to let the younger woman have a brief turn, to nip at Brenda's skin or suck her lip between those perfect, even teeth. Brenda kept opening her eyes to take in the view, to marvel at pale skin – alabaster in the darkness – at rich, glossy hair and beautifully manicured nails stroking her knee, edging her skirt up the slightest bit. This kiss was very different from the others they'd shared, not frantic at all, and even as Brenda's entire body began to tremble with want, she felt the firm grasp Sharon maintained on her composure, leading, guiding, teasing. It was both irritating – what a moment to slip into Captain Raydor mode! – and perversely sexy.

Not for the first time, Brenda longed to make Sharon lose control.

Oh, that mouth. Eyelids at half-mast, the blonde drew back jut enough to see Sharon's glistening, parted lips. She'd never imagined that tart, rigid Raydor with her sharp tongue would have such a sweet, sweet mouth. If she'd known –

For a second, as she touched her lips to Sharon's, waiting to see what the other woman would do because Brenda didn't want this to be the end; she wanted to go on kissing and kissing her – Brenda Leigh imagined the shocked gazes of her squad and Sharon's people if the two women interrupted a crime-scene altercation for a furious lip-lock. And then she tore her mind away from that ludicrous scenario because she didn't want to miss an instant of what was actually happening, which was that Sharon's parted lips were delicately sipping at hers.

Sharon sighed into Brenda's mouth and the blonde clutched at her hair and her shoulder, following as far as she could as her captain leaned back, drawing Brenda's head to rest on her shoulder. As Brenda panted harshly, too overwhelmed to be embarrassed by her response, she felt the quick thudding of Sharon's heart beneath her ear.

"So that's not why we're here, then?" Sharon asked in a low, whiskey-rough voice.

"Sharon," Brenda whispered, aware that she'd just attended a master-class in the art of kissing and received a very hands-on demonstration. After a moment she lifted her head and sought those green eyes, managing a weak, shell-shocked grin. "Maybe I should've been kissing girls all my life."

The creases bracketing the other woman's tiny smile told Brenda plainly that she'd said the wrong thing; she always seemed to say the wrong thing. It would be really helpful if Sharon would just provide her with a pre-approved script. _Women and their _feelings, the chief thought dismissively, and then almost laughed aloud. Captain Raydor could hardly be considered touchy-feely, could she?

Although when she did touch Brenda, the blonde certainly felt… things.

"What was that?" Brenda demanded sharply, almost reproachfully, her desire for this woman smacking up against hot and cold running Raydor.

Sharon finished smoothing her hair into place and handed Brenda a tissue. "That was… something I needed to do. Lipstick," she admonished, directing Brenda's attention to the rearview mirror. "Shall we go eat?"

Brenda was mortified to feel her legs tremble beneath her weight as she stepped out onto the asphalt. Sharon strode ahead, not so much as glancing over her shoulder, her heels click-click-clicking away. The chief lurched into an ungainly half-trot, swearing under her breath. Only half the trembling was induced by residual desire; the other half was due to pure pedestrian irritation. How the hell did the woman do that, get both of them all worked up like that and then flip a switch and become the ice queen? More importantly, _why_ did she do it?

Sharon stood holding the door open, her perfect, aloof profile tipped slightly toward the sky. The blonde stomped past her. "You make me so mad," she practically spat.

The captain only cocked her chin. "You don't exactly fill me with unmitigated delight either."

And yet after they'd sat down and ordered, and the server had brought them small green salads to start, Sharon reached across the table and covered Brenda's hand with her own as the younger woman fumbled with her chopsticks. The captain's skin was still unbelievably soft, her touch warm. "No, Brenda," she said, rearranging the chief's slightly smaller digits on the lacquered wooden sticks. "Like this. It just takes practice."

Brenda smiled self-consciously. "I don't get much of that. When I get take-out it's easier just to use a fork."

Sharon drew away and sipped her green tea. "Then you'll never learn," she pointed out.

They were quiet as the waiter delivered their main courses and they continued eating, the silence neither particularly strained nor comfortable. It felt like waiting, but for what? As the one who'd arranged this meeting, the deputy chief thought she should be able to answer that question and break the silence, but it was as if, in getting the two of them in the same place at the same time, she'd expended all of her energy and found herself looking to Sharon for guidance.

Now there was a frightening thought. Her lips quirked as she was suddenly reminded of a conversation – because really, it had been the same conversation, spread across several different moments in time – the two of them had had last summer. Hire an attorney, chief. Hire an attorney.

Finally Brenda had been forced to admit to herself that she needed to take a professional cue from Sharon Raydor. Now she sat here poking at her salmon sashimi and keenly hoping for a cue of a more personal nature.

"Chief," the captain said at last, her intense gaze still focused on her spicy tuna roll. Brenda wondered if she had some sort of terrifying mind-reading capability. "Brenda." Sharon's eyes flickered upward to connect with her companion's. "I would very much appreciate it if you would explain to me exactly what we're doing here this evening."

Brenda's precarious grip on the chopsticks slipped and the morsel of salmon she'd been lifting to her mouth fell back to her plate, landing with a wet smack that sent a spray of soy sauce across her dry-clean-only blouse. "We're havin' dinner."

The brunette eyed her with unnerving steadiness. "Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why are we having dinner?" Sharon gestured between them. "Why are we sitting here together at this table, making small talk?" If this was Sharon's idea of small talk, Brenda would've hated to catch her in a particularly silent mood. "What's the point? Why did you want to come? Why did you want me to come?"

A few months ago Sharon would never have addressed her so bluntly, not about anything remotely personal; but the woman sitting across the table from Brenda wasn't the Sharon of a few months ago.

But who was she? And who did that make Brenda?

"I told you," the chief responded, her voice climbing higher with frustration and anxiety. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you. Look, I'm really sorry I didn't call, and I know you're upset –"

"You think I'm upset because you didn't call," Sharon interrupted, putting her chopsticks down and precisely aligning them with the stylized edge of her plate.

"Aren't you?" Brenda demanded, at a loss.

The captain seemed to consider. "Actually, I think not calling was the first smart thing either of us has done recently, at least where the other one is concerned."

The blond scowled. "Fine, then. Why did you agree to have dinner with me?"

Sharon's lips twitched into a tiny, self-deprecating smile. "Because I don't seem to be very smart around you, Brenda Leigh."

"Is that why you kissed me?"

The older woman sipped her ice water before responding. "I kissed you because I wanted to," she admitted simply, softly. "I know the reasons for my actions; what I want to know is whether you've actually stopped and thought about the ramifications of yours."

That sounded like Captain Raydor speaking to her and Brenda bristled. But she couldn't work up any real anger as she gazed into those serious eyes because she knew that Sharon was, for once, completely in earnest, and because she had every right to ask. Brenda folded her hands together on the edge of the table and dropped her eyes to study them. Her diamond winked back brightly.

"I haven't been thinkin' about much else," she admitted, and her voice came out low and ashamed. "There just don't seem to be any easy answers."

"There usually aren't."

"I just wanted to see you," the chief repeated rather helplessly.

"Whom did you want to see, exactly?"

Brenda blinked, her features drawing together in confusion. "Wha -? You, Sharon."

The older woman lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. "Captain Raydor, the pain-in-the-ass hall monitor who's trying to protect you from yourself? Your friend and drinking buddy Sharon? Or the Sharon who held you up against the side of a car in a public place and made you come?"

Brenda flushed hotly. "I don't know," she returned, dismayed and a little miserable and fighting the urge to look around and see whether anyone was eavesdropping on their conversation, because the captain hadn't even bothered to lower her voice. "All of 'em. I don't know. You."

Sharon nodded. "I realize you don't know," she said steadily, and Brenda had the idea that that had cost her something. "And until you figure it out –"

"Don't call you, you'll call me?" Brenda interrupted in a piss-poor effort at humor.

"Right." Sharon's smile was tight. "Have you finished?" At Brenda's nod, Sharon tossed a couple of twenties onto the table and stood quickly, as if she'd said what she needed to say and now wanted to end this evening as soon as possible. "I'll take you home."

They were silent during the brief drive. The interior of the car was chilly, and Brenda rubbed her hands together both to warm them and because it provided a small release for her nervous energy. She had wanted to talk to Sharon; she'd wanted to see Sharon. She hadn't allowed herself to think beyond that, and the question "Now what?" loomed large and nausea-inducing on the horizon. Brenda had told herself that this would be enough, this was what she wanted. It wasn't, of course. It was one tiny lick at a chocolate bar, one shallow sip of her favorite merlot.

But the captain was right – again, damn it – about this… situation. She couldn't keep arranging "accidental" meetings with the older woman, drinking wine with her, exchanging urgent kisses and groping in parking lots, and pretend nothing was happening and their relationship hadn't changed. She couldn't keep acting like Sharon was just a work friend like any other work friend with the minor exception that, oops, somehow after a chat and a drink they routinely ended up with their tongues down each others' throats. No, Brenda had to take all the dark, twisted, scary feelings out of their latched chest and look at them, and decide whether to keep them out in plain view or shove them back into the box, this time with a padlock. Otherwise it was grossly unfair, and Brenda might be spoiled and selfish at times – most of the time – but she tried not to be unfair.

But she needed to see Sharon, insisted a fundamentally stubborn part of her brain. It wasn't just desire; Brenda could deal with desire, could sublimate it, hide it away in her candy drawer among the peanut butter cups and stale Twizzlers.

She needed Sharon.

Brenda allowed herself to look over at her companion, to consider the way her elegant fingers held the steering wheel. She inhaled deeply, trying to drag the earthy, tantalizing scent of Sharon into her lungs and hold it there until it made her giddy, high.

That was the problem: being around Sharon intoxicated Brenda. She couldn't think clearly in her presence.

"Yeah," Brenda said aloud, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation rather than blanketed by several minutes of silence. "I need to think."

Sharon bit her lip and nodded sharply as she turned into the blonde's driveway. "Yes," she said decisively. "Good."

She turned and looked at Brenda then, her eyes cool and clear behind the lenses of her glasses. Brenda envied her that dispassionate clear-sightedness even as she resented it. Brenda obviously didn't affect her captain the same way Sharon affected her chief. Sitting here in her own driveway, in front of the lovely home she shared with her lovely husband, whom she really did love very much, having just agreed that she needed to sit down and engage in one of her least favorite activities – soul-searching – before allowing things to proceed any further, all Brenda could think of was how untouchably, flawlessly beautiful the other woman looked, and how much that made Brenda want to touch her, muss her.

"You're staring at me," Sharon said quietly.

"I am. I – I like to look at you."

As soon as the words left her mouth Brenda decided they sounded painfully stupid and greeting-card trite; but then she realized that she'd made Sharon blush, the flush of color overspreading her cheekbones a gray wash in the dim light of the dashboard.

"You should go inside now, chief."

The husky quality of the older woman's voice, the use of the title – Brenda realized what she should've known all along. Sharon was far from being as unaffected as she appeared on the surface. A thrill raced through Brenda's bloodstream. What would Sharon be like if she once really let go?

How fabulous it would be to see her free, uncontrolled, wild. The blonde shivered. A deep, instinctive knowledge told her she had the power to make that happen, to make the real, elemental Sharon reveal herself. She would be magnificent. The thought was so tantalizing and erotic and supremely dangerous that Brenda's chest tightened and she heard herself panting shallowly with the effort to obtain enough oxygen.

The brunette stiffened slightly, sitting up a little straighter as she read the change in Brenda's body language.

"I should."

Brenda didn't move.

Sharon swallowed audibly. "Is Agent Howard – Do you expect him home soon?" she asked awkwardly, sounding oddly formal.

Brenda darted a glance at the car's digital clock. "The meeting doesn't end until eight," she answered, her heart beating hard. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "I don't know when we'll see each other again."

It sounded as if the two of them were engaged in a contest of awkwardness.

"Yes," Sharon murmured. "No."

It didn't make sense, but it didn't matter.

Sharon licked her own lips. "Chief?"

Brenda was practically holding her breath now. One way or another, she was on the verge of passing out from oxygen deprivation. "Yes, captain?"

"I'd like to kiss you good-bye."

Their eyes met. Nope, Brenda Leigh couldn't breathe. "I'd like that," she said bashfully, like a young girl after a successful first date.

Sharon nodded again. Her shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath.

And then, at last, she twisted in her seat and again cupped Brenda's cheek with her cool palm. Her lips were warm; the kiss, thorough but measured, Sharon carefully reining both of them in. Brenda craved the raw passion of their earlier encounters but didn't push. Reluctantly, she accepted what the other woman was doing. That couldn't happen again, not now, maybe not ever. Sharon was allowing this kiss to be a farewell gesture, if that was what it needed to be.

No, Brenda thought, panicky, as the captain drew back. No, no, it's not over.

"Go inside now," Sharon said with unwonted gentleness, that inscrutable expression back. "Good-bye, Brenda."

Brenda unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car in a scene whose eerie similarity to the one they'd played two weeks ago made her skin crawl. She wanted to say something, to reassure Sharon, to convince both of them that they weren't right back where they'd been that night; but how could she? She turned back, leaning down and peering at Sharon, almost scowling at her.

"Good _night_," she corrected fiercely. "Good night, Sharon."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: The Potato Chip Conundrum**

1.

"And Danvers? Chief?"

The blonde removed her reading glasses, hooked them into the v-neck of her turquoise sweater, and finally looked up at Lieutenant Provenza as if she'd just become aware of his presence. "What about him?"

The comfortable lines of the older man's jowls tightened in surprise. "Well, he didn't confess," he pointed out. "What do you want us to do with him?"

Brenda gestured impatiently. "Not all criminals confess, lieutenant, as your forty years of police work may have taught you." She delved into her purse, and looked marginally more satisfied when her fist came up clutching her keys. "Take him to bookin'. We've got plenty of evidence for him to stand trial."

"Okay, chief," Provenza agreed, turning on his loafer-encased heel. The deputy chief had been behaving very oddly, even for her, over the past couple of weeks, and the situation showed no signs of improving. If anything it was deteriorating. She was right to say that Danvers would certainly go to trial for having murdered his business partner, would likely even be convicted; but Provenza had seen her do something on this case that she'd never done before: she'd phoned it in.

The guys attributed her behavior to the burden of this federal lawsuit, especially since she'd been a total space cadet – a surly, foul-tempered space cadet – since Friday evening when she had, according to Flynn and Gabriel, had a meeting with Raydor. Provenza marveled at that woman's ability to cause trouble even when she was suspended.

Provenza caught sight of a familiar figure darkening the doorway and felt a mild wave of relief. "Chief," he said again, nodding in Agent Howard's direction. At least Brenda Leigh would be somebody else's problem for a little while.

2.

The expression her husband's face took on when he made eye contact with her across the murder room gave Brenda a pretty good idea of what her own expression must've been.

"Brenda," Fritz greeted her, and she heard the caution in his voice, read it in his eyes. "It's quiet in here," he observed, glancing around. Tao was hunched over his computer terminal. At his own desk, Gabriel scribbled away.

The deputy chief nodded. "We just wrapped up a case," she said distractedly, mentally kicking herself for being so ill-tempered lately that Fritz was approaching her as warily as anyone would approach a hungry bear on the morning of the first spring thaw. "Well, sort of," she amended, looking toward the white board from force of habit. Flynn was erasing scrawled words, removing the accompanying photos.

She turned her attention back to the FBI liaison, assuming he was present in a professional capacity, unless he had a wider, deeper masochistic streak than she had previously detected. "Did you need to talk to me about somethin'?"

Fritz shook his head. "I just came by to say hi and see if you wanted to get some lunch." He looked apprehensive, as if already regretting that decision.

"Oh."

They stood there, not making eye contact. Had they ever been so constrained around one another before?

The answer, of course, was no; but never had Brenda been lost in a labyrinth of fantasies about someone else, ranging from the most innocent – a smile, a kiss on the cheek, the brushing of fingers – to things that would make an experienced sex-worker blush.

The fragments of the weekend that husband and wife had spent together, arranged around Brenda's jerky, half-hearted attempts to solve her case, had been nearly unbearable. They hadn't argued; they had barely spoken, rattling around the bungalow like little metal balls inside a pinball machine, occasionally making unexpected contact – rounding a corner at the same time; shuffling into the kitchen for another cup of coffee – and ricocheting.

It felt like the aftermath of a blow-out fight, only without the release and relief of the blow-out.

Brenda was growing desperate for release.

She was trying very hard to be rational, reasonable – to be good, the way Mama and Daddy and her Sunday school teachers had taught her. The marriage vows were a sacrament. (So as a divorced woman, she might already be screwed, but she was pretty sure that wasn't how it worked.) She loved Fritz; they had built a life together. Or rather, he had enfolded her and her mess and clutter and obsessions into his neat, orderly world filled with comfortable, matching furniture and home-cooked meals and pets with names.

So the answer to her dilemma seemed obvious. She could nearly reason the so-called dilemma away altogether.

Except Sharon made her burn.

There was no pro or con column wide enough, no scale sophisticated enough, to contain and measure that. Brenda didn't understand it herself, and no amount of reasoning could combat it or explain it away.

While Brenda surveyed a crime scene or washed her hair or drifted off to sleep (something that was assuming the proportions of a daunting task), she counted over all the reasons she couldn't give in, couldn't dip herself into that fire and expect to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. But in her hands she held the time she had spent with Sharon Raydor, each moment a bead on her personal rosary, from their first antagonistic encounter to the way the captain had gently kissed her goodbye Friday night. She held them between her fingers, counting them over, caressing them, in something that was very much like an act of prayer.

Could she tell Sharon she wanted to have sex with her, just try it and see what happened? That was insane, right? It was insane. It wasn't like buying a new dress and taking it home from the store and deciding it didn't hang right or it made your butt look too big or your breasts look too small; you couldn't return it if the tags were still on.

But Brenda Leigh was all too aware that she had to do something. She could barely function, and every aspect of her life was suffering. Maybe – just maybe – if she had sex with Sharon just once, she could stop being so obsessed with the _idea_ of having sex with Sharon. Maybe it would be horrible, and she'd never want to do it again, she thought optimistically, and then her face fell.

No. That didn't seem likely. The two of them had great – by which she meant awful, undeniable – chemistry. Dry-humping Sharon's thigh while both of them were fully clothed had been the most intense sexual experience the deputy chief had had in a long time; she couldn't even imagine what would happen if they actually got _naked_ together.

The thought made Brenda flush with heat and desire, and Fritz asked, "You okay?"

The sound of his voice snapped her back to reality, and for an awful few seconds Brenda feared that he could read her thoughts on her face, see the desperate lust for someone else in her eyes, but he just looked mildly impatient.

Right. He'd asked her a question. "I can't go to lunch," she blurted, because she certainly couldn't, not in her current state, not when she was aching and aroused just from thinking about Sharon. Not when she was, essentially, weighing the pros and cons of committing adultery.

Good Lord, that sounded awful.

"Oh," said Fritz. He didn't sound at all surprised.

"I have a meetin' with Will," Brenda lied.

"Okay. I'll see you at home, then." As if he had already lost interest, Fritz made a low-key exit, not stopping to speak to any of the guys. Brenda felt sure that he was relieved.

The two of them couldn't keep going on this way, that was for sure. Unless Brenda Leigh found a way to clear her head and get back in the game, her marriage didn't stand a chance, and neither did her career.

3.

It said much about both of them, Sharon admitted to herself, and the inevitability of this encounter that she wasn't the slightest bit surprised to realize that both the car pulling into her driveway and the hesitant footsteps tiptoeing up to her front door at one a.m. on Tuesday morning belonged not to an exceptionally well-mannered intruder, but to Brenda Leigh.

So an intruder, but not an exceptionally polite one.

Not an unwelcome one either, the captain acknowledged as she moved through her silent house. Very slowly, very quietly, she walked to the foyer and waited, listening.

Minutes ticked by and the captain began to grow impatient. She had been sincere in her insistence that the younger woman take as much time as necessary to think, although she'd been perfectly aware that in doing so she ran the risk of shunting herself off into the dusty corner of the chief's mind where she kept all the things she preferred never to revisit and examine. Sharon would not have contacted Brenda, whether the silence had stretched for six weeks or six years. Here Brenda was after only four days, though, and Sharon was writhing internally with irritation and impatience. Having Brenda a few feet away was far different from knowing that an abstract Brenda was elsewhere, going about her daily business.

And now the silly bitch was, apparently, content to sit on Sharon's porch for an indefinite period while precious minutes drifted past.

After what she judged to be a good five minutes, the captain opened the door. Sometimes if you wanted a thing done right, or done at all, you had to do it yourself.

"Did you have any intention of ringing the doorbell?"

"Sometimes you don't answer when I ring the bell."

As she spoke, Brenda twisted slowly from the place where she sat on Sharon's top porch step and saw the other woman silhouetted in the doorway. She hadn't turned on any lights behind her, but the pale fabric of her short silk robe glistened in the light from the moon and street lamp. Sharon watched as Brenda's lips parted slightly and her tongue flicked out, as if the younger woman were fantasizing about licking her from head to toe. Sharon felt her nipples rise to hard peaks against the smooth fabric, something that had much less to do with the night air than it did with Brenda's hungry, haunted gaze.

"Sharon," the deputy chief whispered.

"Brenda," the other woman countered on a low hum, and stepped fully out onto the porch. The door closed behind her with a creak.

"I haven't been sleepin'."

"I assumed as much, since you're here." Sharon's slipper-shod feet smoothed over the old rough boards as she joined Brenda, neatly tucking her robe between her thighs as she sat. "Where's Fritz?"

"At home." Brenda turned to face Sharon fully, their knees brushing. "Fritz isn't why I'm here."

"I know," Sharon responded softly, her eyes fastened on Brenda's.

"Do you? Because I'm not sure I do. I just know that I can't sleep and I can't concentrate and I've been in such an awful mood that my whole squad's afraid of me."

"The usual, then."

"Shut up. They love me."

"You _are_ relentlessly charming."

Brenda perked up slightly. "You think I'm charmin'?"

"And relentless. Mostly relentless."

The blonde looked down at her hands where they dangled awkwardly between her knees and huffed out a small breath. "This is kind of a funny conversation for us to be havin' now, on your porch at one a.m., isn't it?"

Sharon swallowed hard, but her voice was as steady as ever when she countered, "What would you rather discuss? The weather? Holiday plans?"

Brenda breathed out harshly again, her nostrils flaring. "See? You annoy me, antagonize me, and it doesn't even help."

Sharon's lips curved into that shaded Mona Lisa smile. (The name of the painting is actually _La Gioconda_; Sharon would correct you, if you got it wrong.) This was the shadow of a smile that never let anyone, especially Brenda Leigh, in on what she was really thinking. "You don't like me."

"I do," the chief admitted frankly, and it was not embarrassing, as it once would have been, perhaps because the other thing, the reason she was really here, had the potential to be beyond humiliating if Sharon decided not to… reciprocate. "But that doesn't even seem to matter."

And here Brenda stopped, unable and unwilling to make herself go any further. She was the one who'd gotten into her car and driven over here in the middle of the night on a Tuesday because she hadn't had any contact with Sharon in four days and she felt like she was gradually but certainly forgetting how to breathe. She wouldn't, she couldn't do any more. She had already done too much. She had a husband at home and she wasn't the sort of person who did this kind of thing – she wasn't a cheater, but she wanted this – needed it, she realized, the way she needed sugar fizzing through her blood, craved it, obsessed over it, but she couldn't just come right out and _ask_.

The gaze Brenda turned on Sharon was imploring, pleading wordlessly. Sharon felt something inside herself crack and splinter. "I know," she sighed softly, and leaned in to bridge the distance separating them, one hand on Brenda's knee as she softly pressed her own lips to that wide, glistening mouth. "I know," she repeated, the words hummed low against the blonde's lips.

The pressure of Sharon's mouth was surprisingly gentle, meant to reassure more than to arouse, just as the stroking of her fingertips over Brenda's knee was comforting, soothing. The blonde breathed out softly, unspeakably grateful, and Sharon shifted, looping her free arm around Brenda's shoulder and drawing the slender body to hers, cradling her.

"Sharon," Brenda sighed, smoothing her palm over the silky fabric of the robe where it covered Sharon's arm, stroking down until she could entwine their fingers where they rested against Brenda's pajama-clad knee. "Sharon," she repeated, because she was afraid of what else she might say.

"It's all right, Brenda Leigh," Sharon murmured, drawing back slightly, and Brenda grabbed onto the words with both hands. Yes, with Sharon it was all right; Sharon knew how to fix this, to make it all right. Brenda stared vacantly into the soft darkness as the other woman's mouth, that perfect mouth, ghosted over her jaw, her chin, down to the long white column of her neck, almost iridescent in the moonlight. Those soft, light kisses warmed Brenda and left her skin tingling, soothing one ache as they reawakened another. She heard the rasp of the zipper as Sharon drew the tab down, freeing a few inches of Brenda's skin from the thick, bulky sweatshirt, and then those lips pressed into the hollow of her throat, her tongue flicking against sensitive skin before her teeth grazed Brenda's collarbone.

The blonde breathed deeply, her pulse thumping wildly. "Oh, Sharon," she gasped, delighted and terrified. "You make me feel so – I don't know what to do, I can't think, I don't want to hurt you or Fritz or –"

Sharon lifted her head abruptly, her eyes glittering into Brenda's from scant inches away. "Brenda," she demanded in a low voice, "do you know why you're here?"

The younger woman dragged in a breath, feeling light-headed, and her gaze drooped to Sharon's mouth. "Yeah," she managed.

"Good." Sharon reached out, tucking a blonde curl behind Brenda's elfin ear and lingering to finger her delicate jawbone. "So do I."

Her captain's lips returned to the hollow of Brenda's throat, and Brenda gasped again as her pulse kicked hard, pounding against the place where the other woman's mouth lingered. Her own fingers flew to Sharon's shoulders, digging in instinctively before she forced herself to loosen her grasp, reveling in the brush of Sharon's hair over her knuckles as Brenda held the dark head to the crook of her neck.

Sharon hummed against soft skin and drew the zipper tab lower. Those elegant fingers with their manicured nails slipped inside the dark fabric. One nail scraped unerringly over Brenda's left nipple, which hardened instantly, the thin material of her tank top doing little to diminish the sensation. Brenda hissed sharply.

Sharon chuckled. "Brenda –" She disentangled herself from the chief's embrace, sat up straight, and green eyes raked Brenda from head to toe, really looking at her attire properly for the first time since she'd discovered the blonde huddled on her porch. "What are you _wearing_?"

Brenda glanced down at the sweatshirt she'd tugged over her white tank, paired so fetchingly with her hot pink pajama pants decorated with drawings of cartoon cats and her hiking boots, which had been the shoes nearest the side door because that was where Brenda had left them after coming back, sweaty and sunburned, from a scene in the foothills last week.

"You're gonna go all fashion police on me _now_?" the blonde sputtered indignantly, even as she ran an admiring eye over Sharon, not for the first time. In her perfect, slinky little robe, with her lightly tousled hair – tousled from Brenda's own fingers, she realized with a surprising surge of pleased possessiveness – she was both put-together and incredibly sexy, a look that wasn't ruined even by the presence of the fur-lined moccasins on her feet.

"I'm wearin' more than you are," Brenda continued, momentarily distracting herself from the visceral desire to see the other woman thoroughly mussed, preferably wild and sweaty and with that glorious hair in a riot of tangles as Brenda did wonderful, terrible things to her. (Brenda wasn't sure precisely what those things would be, but she was reasonably confident Sharon would show her.)

"Yes, well." Sharon's lips gave that familiar twitch, but her gaze had cooled. "I am at home. You drove over here like that." She hesitated. "Really thought this through, did you?"

_Oh_. That was it, then.

Brenda couldn't blame Sharon for being wary. After everything that had happened at the beach, and then later, at the rest stop– she couldn't help flushing as she remembered those moments, not from embarrassment but from the desire to do all of that again and more, so much more – Brenda had disappeared for nearly two weeks, reappeared, and then disappeared again for another four days, only to show up now in the middle of the night.

She didn't know what to say to reassure the older woman, her cautious Captain Raydor. Brenda grabbed both her hands, thinking touching her, making physical contact, might be more effective. Through this medium they understood one another. "I did, you know," Brenda murmured urgently. "Think about it. I haven't done anything since I got home but think about it. About you. Sometimes at work, walkin' down the hall or getting' a coffee in the break room, I hear the sound of those stilettos like you wear, and for a second I expect it to be you." She squeezed Sharon's soft, cool hands, keeping their eyes locked. "My heart pounds and I feel sick, Sharon, because I want so much for it to be true. I want it to be you, coming around that corner and bumping into me again so I can feel you against me, just for a second."

Sharon's eyes widened slightly, but all she said was, "Okay."

It was Brenda's turn to hesitate but she decided to go on. She had to make Sharon see that this was real. "You know what? It's good that it's not you, because I'd have to have you right there. I've imagined it in my office, in the conference room, in the elevator – in the murder room with everyone watchin'."

Sharon breathed out a harsh, strangled laugh. "Not Provenza."

"Yes, even Lieutenant Provenza." Brenda bit her lip and transferred her gaze to the smooth, shell-like curve of Sharon's ear, because looking her in the eye as she admitted this would be too much. She played parts at work all the time, but she had never assumed this role, never spoken so explicitly or pursued anyone so relentlessly – she was accustomed to being pursued – but she'd also never wanted anyone the way she wanted Sharon. Her grip on the older woman's fingers tightened to the point of pain.

"You'd be wearing one of those skirts – the grey one – so I could just reach up and touch all your heat, just like that – shove your panties out of the way and slide my fingers inside you as deep as I could reach, because you'd be ready for me. You'd be so wet, because you'd be thinkin' about it too, wanting it. Wouldn't you?"

Sharon heard the lilt at the end of Brenda's sentence, turning it into an honest question, and answered the only way she knew how. Fingers burrowing – one hand in messy blonde curls, the other shoving the cheap tank top out of the way to palm one full breast – she yanked Brenda to her and kissed her with open-mouthed, electric desperation. She realized dimly that the arm she had around Brenda's neck was trembling with the strain, her fingers probably pulling Brenda's hair, but she couldn't stop herself. She didn't want to try. She had spent so much time trying to be good, controlled, restrained, and this was what it had come to anyway: her tongue fucking Brenda's mouth while the two of them strained toward each other right out here in front of Sharon's house in full view of God and, more pressingly, all her neighbors. And Sharon didn't care.

This was inevitable. Sharon wasn't sure exactly when she had accepted this fact, but thought it was before she'd realized Brenda was outside, lurking on her porch like some Dickensian urchin. Perhaps it had been while Sharon sat on her beloved patio in the chilly twilight, her cell in one hand and a glass of cabernet in the other, and suddenly, in a moment of perfect clarity, realized that it didn't really matter whether or not she gave in and dialed the deputy chief, because somehow they'd end up at this point eventually.

Granted, she hadn't expected that point to arrive quite so soon. And yet, as Brenda arched against her, Sharon didn't think she could've waited through another night.

She yanked the elastic from Brenda's hair and blonde waves tumbled around the younger woman's face. God, she was gorgeous in the dim light, pale and ethereal like a medieval Madonna, and Sharon ached to do profane, unholy things to her. She clutched Brenda's ass, dragging the smaller woman half onto her lap, and Brenda tore her mouth away from the frantic kiss to moan.

"God, you're so hot – I can feel how hot –" Wantonly, she ground her pelvis against Sharon's, which forced the other woman hard against the unforgiving wood of the porch floor, but Sharon was beyond caring. Brenda's hands moved over her, fitful and restless, grabbing her hip, her thigh, her satin-covered breasts with little finesse, but Sharon didn't need finesse right now. She felt half-crazed. It occurred to her that, biology be damned, never had she yearned so desperately to mate with another person; never had polished, buttoned-up Captain Raydor been so close to rutting like the animal she knew she was beneath her expensive suits and more expensive East Coast education.

"Inside," Sharon growled, because her neighborhood was quiet but it wasn't that quiet, and it would be awkward if someone called the police (although really, it was a progressive area, and they'd probably just record the two women and put the video on YouTube – which would be difficult to explain to Chief Pope).

Somehow they lurched to their feet, mouths still joined and arms still tangled, and staggered into the foyer. The door slammed behind them and Sharon immediately pressed Brenda back against it, suddenly wishing the sun were shining so she could see the stained-glass window's hues of amber and fire in that golden hair. She leaned back enough to yank the shapeless sweatshirt from Brenda's shoulders and shove it halfway down her arms, where she left it, distracted by the spectacle of Brenda's rosy nipples, clearly visible through the paper-thin fabric of her top, jutting up toward Sharon.

The captain ducked her head, pinning the smaller woman against the door with the weight of her body, and drew one taut peak into her mouth, laving it roughly through the cotton. Brenda made a high-pitched keening sound, and Sharon looked up to see her neck arched, her head thrown back. She was spectacular. Unable to resist, Sharon reached down, plunging her right hand below the elastic waistband of those stupid pajama pants, and encountered only naked flesh beneath. Her own groan filled her ears as her fingers skimmed through coarse, springy hair to find the source of all that incredible heat, and God, Brenda was dripping, the wetness already dampening her thighs, and Sharon could smell her, rich and pungent –

Brenda's fingers closed around Sharon's wrist like talons and yanked her hand up. "_No_," she said firmly, standing up straight and leveraging the taller woman away from her.

Sharon blinked stupidly, her mind fogged as if she'd been drugged, and managed to drag her eyes back up to Brenda's. Her whole body shook with need. "_No?_" Sharon demanded, her voice so rough with outrage and desperation that she barely recognized it; and she thought dimly that she should be embarrassed, but was too busy feeling as if she'd just been punched in the solar plexus. She could barely breathe. "No?"

The way her voice shook was mortifying, but when she tried to disengage her hand from the other woman's, Brenda tugged her close again, her free hand going to Sharon's jaw and making sure their eyes stayed locked. Well, fine. Sharon wasn't going to look away. Brenda Leigh Johnson had some explaining to do.

"No," Brenda repeated more softly, her mouth drooping as she took in Sharon's stricken expression. "I meant – yes, but –"

"But no," Sharon put in precisely, again trying to pull away, but they'd both had that police academy self-defense training.

"Not like this." Brenda's left hand joined her right to frame the captain's face. "After all this time, I don't want to – to _fuck_ you hard and fast up against the door." She considered and blushed. "Well, I do – but not now. I want a few hours and a bed, or at least a soft surface. I want you naked. I want to _see_ you."

Sharon's eyes darkened as she acknowledged the hunger in that deep brown gaze, and she shivered and tingled with relief. She'd been wrong. Thank God, she'd been wrong; Brenda wasn't running away again. "I have a bed," she said huskily. "And we still have a good four hours before morning."

Brenda smiled, blushing furiously, and Sharon caught one of her hands and squeezed.

Sharon's bedroom wasn't, as Brenda had always assumed, upstairs, but on the ground floor where the house jutted out to flank the second side of the patio. One of her hands still holding Brenda's, Sharon switched on a lamp, and Brenda quickly took in the massive oak bed frame, the sunny yellow comforter, and the brightly colored Navajo blanket spread across the foot of the bed. The sheets weren't rumpled. Maybe Sharon hadn't been sleeping any better than she had. The thought made Brenda feel simultaneously better and worse, and she focused on the chief object of her interest, the incredibly beautiful dark-haired woman who was looking at Brenda like she wanted to eat her alive.

_Yes, please_.

Brenda Leigh had thought she would be nervous – she'd never had sex with another woman, and she figured there was a learning curve – but she wasn't. She was on fire, burning up, melting, and determined to make Sharon Raydor feel a fraction of what she was feeling, so there was no room left for anxiety.

Sharon stood near the foot of her bed, watching the deputy chief. Brenda realized her message had been received loud and clear. Sharon was waiting, watching, content to let her lead for the moment; but Brenda couldn't relax. That unmistakable glint in Sharon's eyes telegraphed not submission but the careful control of a predator lying in wait.

Well, fine. Brenda was no stranger to being underestimated. It tended not to work out well for her opponents.

"Take your clothes off," the blonde instructed, and was proud of how steady her voice was. Sharon's eyes gleamed and her lips twitched. All right, the captain wasn't fooled, but Brenda didn't care, because she shrugged the robe off into a pool at her feet, revealing pale blue boy-cut panties and a soft grey t-shirt that clung to her curves. Brenda wasn't sure what she'd expected Sharon to sleep in at home – ermine and pearls? – but this made her mouth go dry. Sharon reached for the hem of the t-shirt, and suddenly Brenda was beside her, having crossed the room in two long strides. "Wait," she said, gently catching Sharon's arm and drawing it down. "Wait. Let me look at you."

Something glimmered at Brenda from the depths of Sharon's serious, steady gaze, and the older woman dropped her arms to her sides. Brenda's gaze lingered on those long, well-muscled runner's legs. Did Sharon run? She had with Claire at the beach. Did she do it every day? Did she push her body, get all hot and sweaty, before she came home and showered and straightened her hair and put on those perfect Captain Raydor suits? Brenda wanted to know. She wanted to know everything about this woman. Her eyes swept up the defined muscles, over the flair of Sharon's hips – curvy, the way Brenda had longed to be curvy when she was a boyishly slim teenager – to the trim waist, the supple curve of her stomach, the full breasts, the glorious hair, up to the soft green eyes. This was her adversary? Her nemesis?

"Oh, Sharon," she breathed. "Sharon, come here." Brenda didn't realize it, but she was already closing the sliver of distance that remained between their bodies, sliding one of her feet between the other woman's and stroking over her shoulders. "I didn't know. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I didn't know."

Sharon didn't ask what she hadn't known; she just wrapped her arms around Brenda, drawing them together. She was grateful, now, for the pause. She was no longer frantic because she was certain she was going to have Brenda Leigh. There was time to kiss her leisurely, to explore that glorious body. Speaking of which –

"Shit, Brenda Leigh, take those hideous pants off," Sharon growled, roughly nipping the younger woman's lower lip, and Brenda rolled her eyes, but she shucked off the bright pink pants. Sharon stripped the chief's tank top over her head, leaving her completely bare, and nudged her backward until she fell on the bed, allowing herself to fall with the chief. She felt Brenda's hands moving over her, distracting Sharon with her efforts to remove her underwear, something that wasn't even feasible with Sharon in her current position. While one hand tugged, stretching the delicate fabric, the other closed firmly around the older woman's left breast and long, thin fingers tweaked her nipple.

Sharon made a low, growling sound in the back of her throat and slapped Brenda's hand away from her breast. The glancing contact had felt good – of course it felt good – but she was focused, damn it. She wouldn't normally just dive right in like this, especially not the first time, but God knew she'd been waiting long enough, and she didn't intend to wait another minute. She kissed the inside of Brenda's lean thigh, turning so her nose brushed against springy curls already matted with the younger woman's wetness. Sharon inhaled deeply, possessively, allowing herself to be caught up in the animalistic aspects of the mating ritual – she would learn Brenda, memorize her scent so she'd be able to find her later even with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back (and there was an image that had possibilities). Earthy, musky – heady, with a piercing tang. Sharon heard herself moan. Brenda's fingers winnowed through her hair, and then, because she really couldn't wait, Sharon extended just the tip of her tongue and gave an experimental lap at the tip of Brenda's clit, touching this most intimate part of her lover's body with her mouth before she'd even explored it with her hands.

The blonde arched up from her semi-reclining position as if Sharon had jolted her with a thousand joules, a strangled "Woahgod!" flying from her lips and her hands yanking so hard at Sharon's hair that the older woman's scalp screamed in agony. Sharon lifted her head a few inches, one of her own hands coming up to grab Brenda's and tug it free, an act for which her hair follicles immediately thanked her.

"Sorry," Brenda panted, her eyes wide and wild.

Sharon smirked. "Good?"

"Oh, God, yes. Oh, Sharon."

She lowered her head, but before she could properly begin, Brenda was yanking on her hair again, yanking hard. Sharon jerked fully upright, scowling furiously. "Ow, Brenda. _What?_"

Sharon heard how displeased she sounded, and Brenda looked a little panicky. The blonde opened her mouth and said about the last thing Sharon expected to hear:

"Am I allowed to touch you?"

The captain stared, wondering if sex always made Brenda this stupid. She could deal with it if that was the case, but it was best to be prepared. "What the _fuck_, Brenda?" she demanded, exasperated.

The younger woman bit her lip. "It's just, ah, you know," she hedged uncomfortably, "I thought I should ask if you were one of those women, you know, before we go any further." Brenda was blushing furiously now.

"Those women," Sharon repeated coolly, enjoying the spectacle of Brenda's squirming.

"The – the ones who don't liked to be touched durin' sex." Chocolate eyes darted around wildly. "Since you wouldn't let me touch you before, and just now you – I read a book about it once. There's a name for it, but I can't –"

"Brenda," Sharon interrupted, her expression incredulous, torn somewhere between hysterical laughter and miserable weeping. Her green eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to ask me if I'm stone?"

Those deep brown eyes lit with a desperate sort of gratitude. "Yeah, that's what it's called! I couldn't remem –"

Sharon cut off her words by rapidly moving forward so she straddled Brenda's hips, her knees planted wide apart. She yanked her t-shirt over her head, grabbed the chief's left hand and returned it to her breast, and then seized Brenda's right wrist and, yanking the crotch of her pale blue silk panties to the side, shoved it unceremoniously between her legs. "_There_," she growled. "Touch me."

Brenda gaped. Sharon didn't move, her hand still holding Brenda's in place.

"Sharon," the blonde breathed, her eyes impossibly wide, as she cupped the source of the older woman's heat and wetness. Sharon moved her hand away and Brenda cautiously flexed her fingers, eliciting a hiss.

Green eyes found brown. "You can touch me all you want," Sharon promised huskily.

Brenda's chest was heaving as if she'd just run a spring. "Oh, Sharon," she whispered reverently, and some fragment of her brain worried that she was starting to sound like a broken record. Her index finger moved, bumping over Sharon's swollen clit, and the brunette shifted restlessly.

She licked her lips and tilted her head to the side, her hair cascading over her shoulder. "Touch me, Brenda."

Those enormous dark eyes flickered from the slender hand half-hidden by the barrier of pale silk and back to Sharon's face, where they lingered, fascinated. The younger woman gently slid her whole hand back until just the tip of her middle finger could sample the thick moisture slicking the flesh at the entrance to the captain's body. Sharon's teeth sank into her lower lip and her breath hitched, but there was an unmistakable glint of humor in her jade eyes.

"I've never done this before."

The older woman snickered. "Yeah, I sort of figured, chief. Now, are you going to fuck me, or just fuck around?"

Two fingers plunged deeply and the heel of Brenda's hand ground against Sharon's clit. Sharon responded with a thrust of her hips and a saucy grin.

The captain was entirely too smug, too sure of herself, and Brenda's self-respect demanded she tease her a bit, make her suffer before giving her what she wanted, but the chief was too on edge herself. "You feel different."

Sharon chuckled. "Different from you?" The slender fingers retreated and one quickly returned, twisting inside Sharon's body, turning so the pad of her finger so she could feel as much as possible, learning the contours of the other woman's body. Sharon found it oddly endearing, strangely exciting. "I need –"

Before she could finish the statement, Brenda's thumb found her clit and began rubbing in light, steady circles. "The angle's awkward," the blonde confessed, blushing and grinning, and Sharon grinned back.

"You're doing okay, Brenda Leigh." She rocked in counterpoint to the younger woman's steady, lazy rhythm. "Please, harder."

"Like this?"

Sharon's low moan sounded like approval to both of them, and another finger rejoined the one already inside the brunette's body. Brenda's strokes were tentative only at first, and then her natural confidence took over. "Is this what you like, Captain?" Brenda asked, smiling widely.

"I – ah – I like it when you talk to me," Sharon replied, her voice rough. The thumb on her clit circled with increasing determination, and Sharon's internal muscles clenched around Brenda's fingers, which were, really, doing just fine indeed. Sharon was so close to the edge from spending days walking around in a haze of frustrated desire that just the thought of the deputy chief touching her was almost enough to get her off. The reality already had her embarrassingly close, the muscles in her buttocks and thighs trembling, her fingers gripping the sheets as she finally allowed herself to lean forward and brace on her arms for support. She stilled, letting Brenda do the work now, keeping herself in this blissful liminal space as long as she could, drawing out the pleasure.

"I thought my accent irritated you."

"It does."

Moisture surged around Brenda's fingers and she opened her mouth and panted as if she were the one on the verge of orgasm. "Oh, Sharon," she practically cooed, "you feel so good here." The younger woman's fingers crooked to punctuate her statement, leaving no room for doubt about exactly which part of Sharon's anatomy she referred to. Yeah, the captain thought dizzily, I do.

"You're so warm and so – soft. I knew you would be, but it's so much better than I imagined."

"You – thought about it?" Sharon managed, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to hear the words as the younger woman confessed her desire.

"Oh, God, yeah." The blonde squirmed, squeezing her thighs together, and if Sharon hadn't already shifted her weight she would've been bucked off into an undignified heap in the floor. "Thought about it – dreamed about it – wanted you so bad. I've been dyin' to fuck you."

The words did it. Sharon registered that low, sweet voice, let it fill her ears – I've been dyin' to fuck you – and she shattered, coming so violently that there was as much pain as pleasure. It was too much, too intense, and she distantly heard herself whimper as her entire body seized, jerked.

At last she collapsed, weak and trembling as if wracked by fever, and breathed harshly against Brenda Leigh's sweaty neck. She was in no frame of mind to inquire politely about whether she was too heavy, but the deputy chief wasn't complaining. The blonde was gasping for breath, her pulse thumping frantically at her carotid artery, and while one of her arms fastened around Sharon's back like a vise, her other hand clutched the older woman's ass. "Oh, Sharon," she repeated for the umpteenth time. "Oh, God."

"You are new at this. That's my line." The captain pushed herself up to take in Brenda's dazed expression and the flush overspreading her dewy skin, and felt her eyebrows shoot up. "Brenda," she began, struggling to contain a smirk as her own eyes widened with astonishment, "did you just come?"

The blonde bit her lip and tried to glance away, but Sharon dodged, following her eyes. "Well, yeah," she admitted apologetically, and Sharon let loose a snort of laughter.

"Well, then," the older woman said smugly, winding a blonde curl around her index finger, "my work here is done. I'd forgotten how easy straight girls could be. Thanks, Brenda; that was fun." Sharon pushed herself up into a sitting position facing Brenda, and smoothed her hair back, taking in the exquisite sight before her. She still hadn't gotten the opportunity to properly explore the younger woman's naked body, and her fingers itched to trace the twin rises of her pelvic bone, to sample the vulnerable flesh under her arm, to learn the wet heat inside her body. But she couldn't resist the impulse to have a little fun at the chief's expense first.

"Wait! Sharon!" Her expression of astonished horror really was adorable, and as she grabbed Sharon's arm, her features screwed themselves up into a heart-rending pout. "Wait! Is that – I mean, are you – That's not it, is it? I'm not… finished." As Brenda spoke the last word, her sluggish brain registered the sly twist of the captain's mouth and the wicked mischief in her eyes, and she scowled.

"Oh, you bitch. I hate you."

"Ah-ah, chief. Talking like that won't get you anywhere," Sharon warned even as she yielded to the pressure on her arm and let herself be drawn back down to sprawl atop the smaller woman.

"Don't make me order you, captain," Brenda replied breathlessly.

"Nope, that won't work either." Sharon nipped hard at Brenda's earlobe. "Not this time. You have to ask nicely."

_... Drop me a line if you want to know whether or not Brenda asks nicely. Reviews make me type faster!_


	16. Chapter 16

_****A/N: All apologies to anyone who's actually still reading this, and reading it here. This site and I have been engaged in a war of attrition for some time now. This morning, I won. (Please hold your applause until the end.) Anyway, this is the first of four chapters waiting to be uploaded. Note two: seriously smutty. Hide the children._

**Chapter 16: Asking Nicely**

Sharon nipped hard at Brenda's earlobe. "Not this time. You have to ask nicely."

The brunette raised herself to her elbows so just the tips of her hard nipples brushed the vulnerable curves of Brenda's breasts. A tingle of electricity started from the point of contact, and Sharon let herself enjoy the sensation as Brenda sighed.

"That feels really good." An expression of wonder filled the dark eyes gazing up into Sharon's. Brenda lifted one hand to caress the outer curve of her captain's breast while the other stroked dark hair and then continued trailing down, her palm stroking the curve of Sharon's spine before settling in to brush the skin where the tops of Sharon's thighs met the curve of her ass. "I love how – how _feminine_ you feel."

Sharon laughed, the sound low and rich. "As I understand it, that's the point of engaging in this particular activity with another woman."

"I know. But, I mean, I didn't know it would be so – that I'd feel so – Stop laughin' at me!"

"I'm not." Sharon cupped Brenda's chin and turned the blonde's head back toward her until their eyes met, and then bent to kiss one flaming cheek. "Brenda Leigh, I'm not laughing at you. I remember how shockingly different everything felt the first time I was with another woman."

"Different, but… right."

"Yes," Sharon agreed, smiling softly. She kissed Brenda's cheek again, and then the corner of her mouth. "Frankly, I'm honored that you want to have this experience with me. So don't be embarrassed. Just do what feels right, and if you have a question –" She breathed the last words against the younger woman's lips – "by all means, ask."

Sharon stroked Brenda's hair and her cheek as she sampled the chief's mouth, kissing her lightly. Brenda hummed and surged up against her, her hand moving up to Sharon's neck so she could press their mouths firmly together. At her insistence the kiss transformed into something deep and wet and raw, their tongues battling and teeth bumping, accompanied by a low, eager chorus of wordless approval. The dark-haired woman broke away and dodged to suck Brenda Leigh's pointed little chin into her mouth, and the unexpectedly erotic sensation had Brenda throwing her head back, giving the captain unrestricted access. Sharon moved down the column of that swan-like neck and felt the vibration of her own name against her lips.

"Mmm," the blonde encouraged, turning her head on the soft pillow and spreading her thighs in an unabashed effort to grind against whatever part of her lover she could reach. She craved the wet heat of that impossibly soft mouth on her breasts, her belly, her thighs – everywhere.

Sharon nipped at her collarbone, her tongue darting out to lap at the hollow of Brenda's throat, and the slighter woman made a high, whining sound like an animal in heat. God, that was how she felt, burning and needy and desperate, her world narrowing to the throb of heat between her legs and the tingling in her clit. Sharon moved further south, sucking one stiff nipple into her mouth without preliminary; Brenda felt a second's relief at the longed-for contact before her clit twitched and tingled more insistently, telegraphing that the attention Sharon was now paying to her neglected breasts could only make Brenda's need more urgent. The other woman firmly pinched the blonde's other nipple and Brenda's hands flew up to the headboard, her palms pressing flat for leverage as she ground against her captain's thigh. Her nipple slipped from Sharon's mouth with a wet pop and Brenda opened hazy eyes (when had she closed them?) to watch the taller woman move atop her. Sharon was intently studying Brenda's face as she lifted her body slightly, bracing herself on her left elbow and creating space for her right hand to slip between the cradle of the younger woman's thighs. Two long fingers plunged inside the chief's body, deep and hard, twisting when they bottomed out and began to draw back.

Brenda gasped, her eyes huge. She used her arms to push herself down the bed, following Sharon's fingers and grinding against her palm. "Hmm, yeah," she managed to mutter enthusiastically.

Sharon's eyes glittered darkly as she smiled, setting up a leisurely rhythm of long, slow, deep thrusts, sliding all the way out of Brenda's body and teasing the incredibly sensitive skin just outside her opening before returning, moving excruciatingly slowly. The achingly slow drag of Sharon's knuckles as they penetrated Brenda over and over again, unhurried, the pace unchanging, had the blonde writhing and open-mouthed, her eyes glazed over with pleasure and lust but never deviating from the green gaze boring into her.

The captain hummed low, her eyes narrow and feline as she reveled in the wet sounds of her own fingers _finally_ inside Brenda where they belonged, exploring that smooth, silky heat.

Evidently Brenda was more talkative than her dark-haired partner during sex. "So good," she crooned, one hand leaving the headboard to stroke Sharon's hair, rubbing it between her fingers. "Don't stop, don't stop –"

Sharon had no intention of stopping, not yet. She nibbled at one of the deputy chief's nipples, scraping lightly with her teeth, and Brenda shifted, pressing one lean thigh firmly between Sharon's legs. The blonde moaned again, relishing the new sensation of Sharon's slick, swollen sex against her skin, and the hand playing with Sharon's hair moved down to grip her lover's ass and press their bodies together more tightly. She wanted to feel as much of this woman as she possibly could. Sharon instinctively rocked against her and Brenda encouraged, "Yeah, like that."

"Yes," Sharon agreed, beginning to move her hips in time with her own hand, unembarrassed to take what she wanted. The smaller woman's lips and teeth sought purchase on the taut tendon at the side of Sharon's neck. The captain was aware of someone's heart thundering wildly, but she wasn't sure if it was hers or Brenda's. After a moment it occurred to her that it was both.

The friction between her clit and Brenda's smooth skin felt so good that Sharon had to force herself to concentrate, gathering the scattered fragments of her consciousness and breathing deeply. She pulled her legs up beneath her so she sat straddling the blonde's leg, letting more of her weight bear down on the willowy form beneath her. Brenda whined in frustration, and Sharon dragged her eyes up to meet the dark, smoldering stare. The brunette grinned, joyous and cocky, and Brenda Leigh tried to glare at her but couldn't manage it.

"What about me?" she pouted.

Those fingers crooked up and rubbed slowly and firmly against the front wall of the blonde's vagina. "What did I say, Brenda Leigh?" teased Sharon's low, sultry voice.

Brenda managed that glare. "Oh, shit, _please_, Sharon, please!"

The reward was immediate. Sharon's thumb dragged over her clit, slowly at first, and then gradually faster and faster. She knew it wouldn't take much; she already had the chief poised on the edge, her muscles quivering, her breath jerky, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her mouth open. Sharon was waiting, ignoring the impatient humming of her own body and watching with baited breath for the second when her lover would tip over the edge. So she blinked in surprise when those eyes flew open, so dark they looked black, and Brenda's hand lifted to cup the brunette's breast, gently squeezing and weighing it.

"You too." Brenda stroked Sharon's nipple and licked her lips. "Can you -?"

Sharon grinned when she realized what her brand-new lover was asking and rolled her hips. "Oh yeah," she promised. "Don't worry about me."

Brenda grinned back and then sank her teeth into her lower lip. Her eyes closed and her neck arched back, her brow furrowing and her breath halting. Sharon's own body pulsed with the frantic beats of Brenda's heart, each one traveling up her arm from the fingers clenched inside the blonde's body. Three beats – four – five –

The younger woman shattered soundlessly, her head twisting on the pillow, and Sharon drove her hips forward violently, needing only the smallest bit more friction at that most sensitive point to tumble and fall. After only a few seconds the captain's body went rigid, and as she came – all pleasure this time, no pain, pulsing up her spine and down her limbs – Brenda blinked up sleepily at her from molten eyes flecked with gold.

Sharon stretched her legs out when she realized her knees were aching and her nerves tingling with the unpleasant sensation of pins and needles, but otherwise neither of them moved. Their breathing gradually slowed, their chests rising and falling in sync, and as the taller woman's skin cooled she caught the colorful Navajo blanket with her foot and dragged it up over them.

"'s nice," Brenda hummed, looping one arm around Sharon's shoulders and sifting through her silky hair. In response the brunette turned her head to press her lips to Brenda's cheek, a startlingly sweet, chaste gesture after their recent activities. The blonde curled her toes and shivered pleasurably, relishing the feeling of being relaxed for the first time in days, if not weeks. Breathing in the appealing scents of sweat and perfume, she cuddled Sharon to her as if the captain were a life-sized teddy bear. The other woman hummed now, amused and tolerant, and neither of them spoke for so long that Brenda thought Sharon might have fallen asleep.

Brenda herself wasn't asleep when Sharon broke the silence, but she was drifting, her mind blank as she concentrated on the rhythm of her own slow inhalation and exhalation, the beating of her heart, the teasing tickle of Sharon's warm breath against the outer curve of her left breast.

"You understand that this doesn't change the situation."

Sharon's softly spoken words barely penetrated Brenda's consciousness, not upsetting her the way she would've expected them to, because they were so totally at odds with this moment. Things felt very different; this felt very different. And again Brenda asked herself if it was because she was lying so intimately entwined with another woman, and again – with more certainty – she suspected that the answer was no. Oh, the exquisite smoothness of the skin pressed against hers, the tickling sensation of the luxuriant dark hair draped over her own arm, the irresistible opportunity to cup a full breast in her hand and feel the dusky-rose nipple stiffen against her palm: all of this was new and fascinating and unbearably erotic in its sheer femininity, and Brenda felt dizzy with the exhilaration of being able to plunge into the delicious mysteries hinted at by the shadow of Sharon's pubic bone; the heavy, cloying scent of her arousal – earthy and shockingly familiar and radically new – and the promise in those fathomless green eyes. But it was Sharon's body, always Sharon's body, never another woman, never anyone else.

That was a little too heavy and a little too close to navel-gazing, and it made Brenda's pulse leap with something akin to panic, so she snuggled against her lover – her _lover_ – and cut her thoughts adrift. She would think with her physical body instead, with her skin and with the muscle fibers that would ache later and with the residual throb between her legs. She would think the graceful curve of Sharon's spine and the flair of her hips – surprisingly dramatic, flamboyant, with all those layers of fabric stripped away – and the taste of herself on the other woman's fingertips, reassuringly intimate.

Brenda was happier than she could remember being, freer, relaxed and satisfied and beginning to want her captain again all at the same time, enjoying the lazy build of reawakening arousal. "Hmm," she sighed, content to drift on the fantasy of an endless moment and all that would mean: time to hug and cuddle and kiss, leisure to map and memorize Sharon's body, to taste her, to feel the shocking joy of her muscles clenching violently around Brenda's fingers.

"The situation hasn't changed," Sharon repeated insistently.

"No," Brenda agreed on a soft sigh, and they both fell silent. Sharon shifted, rolling onto her back and drawing the younger woman's head to rest on her chest, as if to soften the blow of the reminder that this was all there was for the two of them, this one night. Because that was what it meant to insist these stolen moments hadn't changed anything. In the dark-haired woman's calculating mind, it was a concise semantic choice. Having sex one time was bad. One time was cheating. But one time was not an affair. Sharon was reminding her that Brenda still hadn't actually made any decisions, and that physical intimacy couldn't take the place of some heavy soul-searching.

Or at least that was what Brenda assumed Sharon meant, and she wondered when and how she had become versed in divining Sharon Raydor's thoughts. Had she drunk the skill with those bottomless glasses of cabernet, read it in the way the captain decisively switched lanes as she drove north on the interstate, tasted it in the small, perfectly round puckered scar she'd mapped tonight with her tongue?

Brenda's hand found that scar, just above Sharon's right hip. "You got shot."

Sharon hummed.

"When?"

"About nine – no, ten years ago."

The chief let her fingers play over the long-healed wound, stroking the mark protectively, caressingly.

There was another scar, too, low down on Sharon's abdomen, this one a precise surgical line. As Brenda's hand roamed so she could trace it, Sharon twisted her upper body enough to meet the younger woman's gaze. Her green eyes sparkled with amusement. "C-section," she confirmed. "Two of them. I do have three children, Brenda."

"Are you ever gonna tell me about 'em?"

"My surgeries?" Sharon retorted flippantly.

"Your children, captain. Are they all like Claire?"

Sharon chuckled, a sound that wasn't completely filled with humor. "They are not." She twisted around again, curving around the blonde's side. "I don't want to talk about this now."

"What do you want to talk about?"

Sharon smirked, her cool fingers tracing a pattern on the inside of the other woman's thigh. "Do we have to talk?"

Brenda felt her expression dissolve into a grin. Part of her wanted to push, to unearth more little fragments and artifacts of the life of Sharon Raydor. So much remained hidden below the surface. But those practiced fingers were teasing soft skin, glancingly brushing the damp curls that covered Brenda's mound, and what was _on_ the surface was so very alluring. So instead she leaned up and pressed a soft, eager kiss to parted lips.

"I like the way you think, captain," she said; and then neither of them said anything for a while.

2.

"Brenda." Fingers combing through her hair and a low, teasing filament of a voice above her pulled the chief from sleep. "Rise and shine, Brenda Leigh."

She realized immediately that it was still dark out, the light silhouetting Sharon spilling from the shaded lamp on the bedside table. "Mmm," Brenda hummed, semi-blindly reaching out, her fingers finding the warm contours of muscle and bone through the cool silk of the pale blue robe. It had really happened, then. She knew the guilt would come later – she could already feel it impinging on the edges of her fuzzy consciousness – but her first sensation was that of overwhelming relief. Tonight hadn't been another dream or a fantasy; they had finally, really done it. She, Brenda Leigh Johnson, had had sex with Sharon Raydor. The knowledge made her a little giddy.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Sharon murmured politely, as if the lips and tongue and teeth shaping those words weren't the same ones that had made the other woman writhe in ecstacy a couple of hours earlier. Brenda tried to focus on the words, but she was busy watching her own palm stroke down Sharon's arm to her side, and then to her leg. "But I assume you probably need to go. It's almost five."

Brenda Leigh flinched and blinked. "But I don't wa—"

Sharon's soft palm covered her mouth. "Don't, Brenda. That will only make it worse. You should shower first. You have plenty of time. I'll get you a towel and a washcloth."

Despite the fluffy weight of Sharon's warm comforter, a chill seeped into Brenda's bones as soon as Sharon herself stood and moved away from her. The blonde bit her lip hard. Once again she'd acted without fully considering the consequences. She'd gotten what she'd wanted, what she'd _needed_ – and now she was just supposed to give it back?

She caught up with the other woman in the spacious bathroom. Sharon offered no resistance when Brenda wrapped her arms around the captain from behind, pressing her naked body against the silky fabric that enfolded the older woman's body and hugging her hard. "Sharon," Brenda breathed, kissing the side of her elegant neck where she could reach soft skin through the curtain of Sharon's hair.

She felt the taller woman's shoulders lower as she heaved a sigh. Suddenly Sharon spun, her own arms going around Brenda. Their breath mingled for only a second before their parted lips met and they were kissing feverishly, their tongues tangling together and their arms banding tightly. When they broke apart Brenda's back was pressed flush against the shower door with Sharon's thigh insinuated between hers and they were both breathing unsteadily.

Okay." Sharon's voice was ragged. She cleared her throat and repeated, more steadily this time, "Okay. Take your shower now. I'll be outside."

Brenda nodded distractedly and turned quickly to go about adjusting the water. She shook off the urge to pull Sharon under the hot stream with her. She was exhausted, her body aching from exertion and sleep deprivation, but she still longed to press their bodies together and feel Sharon's arms around her as a cocoon of steam and hot water curled around them.

When Brenda emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy blue bath towel, she found her pajamas neatly folded and awaiting her at the foot of the bed. Sharon had also smoothed the sheets and drawn the comforter up. The sight gave the deputy chief a pang of sadness.

She found Sharon in the kitchen sipping tea from an earthenware mug. "Green tea?" she asked, gesturing invitingly.

Brenda shook her head.

"All right, then. You should go. First, though – Brenda –" Sharon placed her tea on the counter and took the younger woman's hand in both of hers. Her thumb whispered over the inside of Brenda's wrist, making the chief shiver.

Brenda's heart throbbed. "Sharon?" she questioned, anxious.

Sharon's eyes were shadowed but soft. "Tonight was very… enjoyable." At any other time Brenda would've thought the return of Sharon's extreme awkwardness under the circumstances was utterly adorable. Now it just caused a dismal heaviness to settle in the pit of her stomach. "But we both know it can't happen again. I won't let it. And if I know you as well as I think I do, neither will you."

Brenda breathed out shakily. She didn't want these thoughts to impinge on these few precious minutes. She wanted to enjoy the last of this quiet, intimate time with her green-eyed captain without thinking about it being the last.

"Are you sure you won't have some tea?"

The blonde considered. Her first impulse was to say she'd changed her mind, to do anything to prolong this night; but maybe, given that she had to leave eventually, and sooner rather than later – night was over; morning had come – she should go now, rip off the Band-Aid.

She shook her head, and Sharon nodded. "We can't talk," the older woman said quietly. "We can't see each other. We can't have any contact."

Brenda Leigh tingled hot and cold. "Ever?" she squeaked, and Sharon stopped with her mug near her lips, a pained smile curving the soft line of her mouth.

"Until you've _actually_ given some thought to what you're doing." She sipped her tea, steam rising and curling around her pale face, and then admitted quietly, "I certainly hope it isn't forever, Brenda Leigh."

Brenda thought perhaps she'd made a mistake in refusing the tea. Her throat hurt, and her sinuses burned. "Me either," she said hoarsely. "It – it won't be. I just need a little while."

Sharon's smile twisted. "And then what?" The deputy chief blanched and generally looked as if the taller woman had run over her puppy. Sharon held her free hand up, palm out. "Listen, I'm not – I'm not asking for anything. I don't want anything from you. But this position is… uncomfortable for me. I just need to know, Brenda –" She had slipped into her Captain Raydor voice again – "that you are fully cognizant of… of…" The professional tone faltered.

"The situation?" Brenda suggested.

"Yeah," the other woman agreed, awkward again. "That."

The chief nodded and swallowed hard, looking down at the brilliantly pink pajama pants covering the tops of her hiking boots. She needed to get home and change before Fritz was awake and alert enough to wonder why she was wandering around greater Los Angeles in her jammies. She looked up again, meeting shadowed green eyes, and instinctively leaned in to kiss the other woman good-bye, but Sharon flinched away. Well.

"Okay, I'm goin'," Brenda murmured hastily, because the burning in her throat was back and it was worse this time, making her feel like some sort of maudlin cliché straight out of the purplest of prose. "Bye."

Sharon nodded hastily, offered a quick little flutter of her fingers, and turned toward the sink. The last thing Brenda saw before she really did leave was the stiff line of the other woman's back.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Needful Things**

1.

Stacey Shepperson was having a terrible day; she just hadn't realized it yet. Brenda Leigh studied the young woman through the video feed on the large computer monitor in the media room. The twenty-two-year-old sat motionless, slumped over her folded arms, her fuchsia-tinged locks cascading forward to hide her pale face. The deputy chief wasn't sure she was even awake.

"Hey, David?" Brenda half turned from the monitor. "Never mind. I'll take the coffee myself."

Brenda filled a cup for herself as well as one for the young woman, who was potentially a suspect, a witness, both, or neither. Brenda was having a bad day too – a bad week, really, but it felt like one continuous awful day because she hadn't been sleeping. It wasn't that she couldn't, exactly; but if she let herself sleep she might dream. She had jolted to consciousness three days ago with Fritz leaning over her, shushing her and reassuring her that it had just been a dream, a nightmare.

He'd been wrong on both counts, and when he'd attempted to pull her into his arms to comfort her ("Is it the lawsuit, honey?") and she'd jerked away, he'd looked as if she'd slapped him. But the dream, or the memory, was too fresh, and his weren't the arms she'd expected to feel wrapping around her.

She hadn't fully realized how accustomed she'd grown to using work as a refuge from home, rather than the other way around, until that refuge had come under threat. More disturbingly, she couldn't articulae exactly what that threat was. Oh, there was the federal lawsuit, which was a sufficiently daunting prospect on its own; but she could no longer deny that there was something else, too. Something in the way her guys fell silent when she unexpectedly turned a corner; something in Taylor's smarmy smile; something in Will's dispassionate gaze as it roved over her from head to toe. She even began to think the shadows in the depths of Special Agent Howard's eyes hinted at the possession of some key piece of knowledge his wife lacked.

That accounted for the wayward throb of sympathy she felt for this wreck of a girl with her bruise-dark eyes and heroin-chic pallor.

Brenda couldn't even call Sharon and ask her for advice, or show up at her house with a bottle of cabernet and the desperate need to discuss all the ins and outs of life in Major Crimes, because of this impossible situation the two of them had gotten themselves into. Brenda felt horribly guilty when she thought about it, which was pretty much all the time, sure she was being unfair both to Sharon and to Fritz; and yet she was also sure she wouldn't trade that night for anything, even if it haunted her and turned her into an insomniac zombie until she was old and grey.

She needed the stability of her home life with Fritz, their routine, their shared – well, everything. Didn't she?

But she needed Sharon. She needed her here at work being a pain in the ass, and she seemed to need her in other, more elemental ways too.

Some of the hot coffee sloshed onto Brenda's skin and she mentally shook herself, suddenly aware that she'd been staring at the coffee pot as if it contained all the secrets of the universe. She didn't know what to do about herself, about Fritz, about Sharon. She didn't know what she wanted and what she needed and where the two merged and where she was just a selfish, egocentric bitch.

But at least she knew one thing: right now she needed to go into that interview room and tell Stacey Shepperson her little sister was dead. And then she needed to ask Stacey if she'd killed her.

2.

On the bedside table her phone burred a single time, signaling an incoming text. Sharon reached over automatically, but when her fingers found the cool plastic she lingered._ Ignore it_, dictated the higher part of her brain.

_It's probably Brenda_, the needy, sensitive part of her she kept hidden away somewhere – perhaps in the vicinity of the fingers that ached to curl into her pockets or the soft laugh lines that altered her whole demeanor when she smiled – countered.

_Exactly. It's probably Brenda, because only she would have the temerity to text you at 1 a.m._

It didn't feel like making a choice at all. The light of the screen flickered anemically on her skin as she read the simple message. **Can't sleep. Thinking about you**.

Sharon closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could erase the knowledge borne by those characters, but the vision of Brenda, her hair pulled back messily, wearing those god-awful pajamas and her reading glasses as she hunkered furtively over her phone, taunted her._ Don't answer. Don't answer, don't answer._

**I'm awake too.**

There, Sharon thought with a glimmer of pride amid her humiliation. That was vague.

**What are you thinking about?**

The captain looked at her phone as if it had transformed into a viper.** Trying not to think.**

Her fingers trembled slightly as she tapped out the phrase.

**I miss you.**

This time she was strong: she didn't respond. She rolled onto her side, toward the middle of the bed, still clutching the phone, feeling as if she'd swallowed something hot and bitter. Brenda missed her, did she? Sharon was the one with the silent house, the job that was dead in the water – the empty bed.

She hated Brenda for her blind egotism, her selfishness. She hated herself more for the pathetic, vain, self-pitying strain her thoughts adopted so often lately when she was left to herself, which was most of the time.

**I need to hear your voice**.

Even as cynical, intellectual Sharon sneered at Brenda for having the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year-old girl, a drowning Ophelia, she had to admit that she liked the idea of being needed by the deputy chief. Needing was both worse and better than wanting.

Sharon did not let herself think in these terms when it came to relationships. She needed food, water, shelter, air to breathe, and her salon-quality flat iron. She didn't need Brenda Leigh Johnson. She couldn't afford to.

But she also couldn't seem to stop wanting her, which was why she wouldn't deny the two of them this one thing – a small thing in the grand scheme, she reasoned.

"Sharon!"

Her name came out in a quick, breathy rush the instant the call connected.

Sharon said nothing. What was there to say?

"I – Hey," Brenda continued after a moment, sounding bashful. "Are you gonna talk to me, or just breathe?"

"I rather intended to do both," she answered, because it was so good to hear the other woman's voice, and because she wanted this contact so much that it scared her. "Can you talk?"

"Yeah, for a little while. Fritz is asleep."

"Where are you?"

"In the guest bathroom." Sharon snorted, and Brenda defensively appended, "It's as far away from the bedroom as I could get, okay? I – I just – I was layin' there going crazy."

"We said we weren't going to do this. No phone calls."

The triumphant grin came through clearly in Brenda's voice. "You called me."

"Because you texted me."

"You didn't say no textin'."

Sharon sighed, rearranging the sheet and comforter as she snuggled into her pillow, and permitted herself a small smile. Here in the cozy warmth of her bed, with her phone clapped to her ear and everything else hushed and still, it was easy to imagine that Brenda was here with her. The intimacy was as welcome as it was dangerous.

"How are you?" Brenda asked awkwardly.

"I'm fine, and you?"

"I'm fine too."

They had both answered too quickly, too certainly, and were relieved to have that over. Neither of them was lying awake in the middle of the night because she was fine.

"Are you in bed?"

"Well, I'm not in the guest bathroom."

"I wish I was there with you."

Even as Sharon mentally corrected the chief's grammar she asked, "Is that so? Is my bed more comfortable than yours, Goldilocks?"

"It is when you're in it."

Sharon bit her lip. "Bren-da."

"I can't help it. I can't stop thinkin' about it. Last night Fritz and I – well, we –"

"I don't need to know," Sharon cut in hastily. She didn't want a play-by-play of the blonde's sex life with her husband, even if Brenda had been on the verge of confessing that she thought about Sharon when they did it. It was something she knew existed, like the hole in the ozone layer, but driving herself crazy thinking about it wouldn't do anyone any good. "Jesus, Brenda."

"I'm sorry." And she did sound contrite. "I just think about you. Not just then; all the time. I think about the way your voice drops when you tease me and how you wear those stupid designer blue jeans and how I don't even know your favorite color or your other daughter's name."

Sharon didn't take the opportunity to enlighten her. Brenda didn't need to know those things about her because this thing between them couldn't be anything other than what it was.

"I – I think about kissing you." Brenda's voice wavered. "Sometimes I dream about it, and then I wake up and… you're not there."

"No," Sharon whispered, "I'm here."

"You have the softest mouth. I think about your lips, your teeth, your tongue on my skin."

Sharon's stomach was twisting with a combination of sickness and desire. The way she wanted Brenda despite her morals and beliefs, despite her perfect knowledge that it was wrong, despite everything, made her feel dirty, filthy.

"You're like candy, Sharon. I crave you."

"Candy's bad for you," Sharon returned shakily, squeezing her eyes shut as she shifted restlessly under the covers, trying in vain to blot out the barrage of images the other woman's voice evoked.

"But what's the point of life if you're not livin' it? I wanna touch you. I want it so much that it's drivin' me crazy."

Sharon groaned, a ragged thread of sound. Oh, she wanted it too, damn it.

"No, Brenda."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean I can't believe you called me up at one a.m. to ambush me into having phone sex with you."

"What? I never –"

"_Brenda_. It's late. Go back to bed."

"I know you want to see me."

The older woman huffed out an irritated breath, but she didn't bother lying. She didn't bother answering at all.

Brenda's voice was softer when she spoke again. "I want to see you, Sharon. Please."

"Does that mean –" Sharon swallowed and began again, her voice more like its usual steady self. "Does that mean you've made a decision?"

The other woman was quiet for long enough that Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, scrunching the lids until they ached and she saw explosions of white. God damn it, Brenda was doing it again. Sharon couldn't, wouldn't take it; she couldn't keep doing this to herself.

"I've decided that I need to see you."

Sharon opened her eyes in the darkness. It was still dark, of course.

"Let me see you. Meet me for lunch tomorrow."

Meet for lunch, Sharon thought. Was lunch _lunch_, or was lunch a euphemism? Or was it both, sandwiches and a screw?

Either way, she knew she'd go. She couldn't seem to stay away.

3.

At 12:15 the following afternoon, as she stopped at a red light, Brenda Leigh scrabbled for her cell phone where it lay beside her car's cup holder, and made the call she'd been putting off for the last twenty-five minutes in the hope that some bolt of inspiration would strike her or the coroner's office would call and say Estelle Sarloff wasn't really dead, just having a very bad day.

Sharon's answering "Hello?" was cautious. She knew Brenda probably wasn't calling to say she was stuck in traffic.

"We just caught a murder; I'm on my way to the scene now. There's no way I'm gonna be able to leave."

"Oh." In that single syllable Brenda heard the disappointment that had been smoothed out of Sharon's voice when she continued, "People do go and get themselves killed at inconvenient times. Anything interesting?"

"I don't know yet," Brenda answered distractedly, her mind not on the investigation but on the woman at the other end of the line. The deputy chief knew too well what it felt like to be in that position: the sneaking around, clandestine meetings, making do with a phone conversation or a stolen kiss or a hard, fast screw in a generic hotel room; last-minute changes of plans, being left alone, at a loose end.

It was difficult to imagine Captain Sharon Raydor feeling all those things, much less feeling them because of her. Maybe Brenda was projecting her own experience and exaggerating the reality. But she was disappointed; Brenda Leigh had heard it.

"I'm really sorry, Sharon," she said sincerely, flushing with unhappiness as she stopped at another damn red light. It didn't matter that she was the one doing the cancelling; Brenda Leigh felt like a child who'd been denied a promised treat.

"It can't be helped," the older woman replied brusquely. "I'm just glad you remembered we had plans."

Brenda frowned. "I wouldn't leave you sittin' in some café, waitin' for me."

"The first time you did would also be the last time, chief."

The blonde was sure the captain would be true to her word. Her mind leapt ahead to brighter things. "Meet me there," she suggested impulsively.

Her response was an incredulous snort. "At your crime scene?"

"Yes. Not at the scene itself, of course, but it's on one of those little streets off Sunset. There's bound to be somewhere nearby where we can have a coffee and… talk."

"You want me to drive forty minutes for coffee?"

"You're already in your car," Brenda pointed out, wheedling because she was pretty sure Sharon did actually want to, but needed a little encouragement. "Please. I've been so lookin' forward to seeing you."

"So have I," the older woman admitted almost regretfully after a slight pause. "All right. Around two?"

The deputy chief beamed. "Text me." Her voice dropped as her heart rate increased a notch. "I'll make it up to you."

Sharon's low chuckle seemed to vibrate through the marrow of Brenda Leigh's bones. "I'm counting on it," she returned, her voice a rich, throaty murmur, and hung up.

Brenda was surprised by how well she found she could focus on the fledgling investigation, as they combed the living room and garden of the late Estelle Sarloff (who really was very dead) for shell casings, took a statement from a hysterical housekeeper, and went about the usual business of determining why someone would brutally murder the 88-year-old widow of a movie mogul. Maybe, the blonde thought as she checked the time and noted with pleased surprise that it was 1:45, it was because the agony of resistance and indecision was over. There were no more ifs: she had succumbed to temptation, they both had, and it was so much more sinfully delicious than the first bite of a rich, delectable slab of double chocolate fudge cake. She would see Sharon, talk to her, touch her – not too much, not enough to get carried away, but she imagined casually leaning in and brushing her fingertips over the skin of her lover's hand. Just that was enough to make her shiver in anticipation.

She heard her phone vibrate in her purse, rattling between her keys and her glasses case, and her heart thumped fervently. Of course Sharon was punctual.

"Lieutenant Provenza," she called, striving to keep her expression neutral and her voice from rising, buoyed by her nervous excitement, "you take over here. I'll see you all back at the office. Lieutenant Tao, is the ballistics report –"

Tao saluted her with a sheaf of papers. "Under control, chief."

"Good. Well." She hesitated awkwardly, turning a full three hundred sixty degrees to survey her surroundings. Had Brenda Leigh ever voluntarily left a crime scene? This, she realized, might be a first.

She snickered to herself as she slid behind the steering wheel. The captain would be so flattered to hear she'd won Brenda's attention away from the corpse of an octogenarian.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Gold Star**

1.

The text from Sharon contained an address only half a mile from the crime scene; and when the deputy chief had to circle the block twice to find parking, her frustration nearly shot off the Richter scale, particularly when she passed Sharon's car, the vehicle plainly telegraphing the captain's presence just a few yards away.

Bitch had probably taken the last space, Brenda reflected.

But she did find a space, and at last she was entering the coffee shop – trust Sharon to find a funky little independent place rather than the nearest outlet of a mega-chain – and there Sharon was, the lights glinting off her glasses, her eyes warm behind them, and a genuine smile gracing her lips.

Brenda wasn't sure how she crossed the intervening space, but the next thing she knew she was shrugging out of her coat and sinking into the chair opposite Sharon, breathing out an eager "Hi."

Sharon's answering smile was one the younger woman had seen only a few times. "Hi. I got you a latte – skim." She nudged one of the oversized mugs across the table. "I hope that's okay."

Brenda dimpled with pleasure. "That's my favorite."

"I know." Brenda would swear Sharon was blushing slightly, a light flush that dusted across her cheekbones. "I'm good with details."

That made the chief laugh outright. "Oh, yes, you are."

The current of her voice carried a double entendre that Brenda had not, in fact, intended, and she felt herself blush to match Sharon, and then they both laughed. Brenda couldn't get enough of just looking at the older woman, a simple pleasure but one circumstances and her own feeble struggling had denied her for too long.

She smiled almost shyly. "Thanks for comin'."

Those soft lips parted in response and then the captain paused, as if weighing whether or not to say what she'd intended, before answering, "Thank you for asking." Sharon reached out and lightly rested two elegant fingers on the extended hand that Brenda had curled around her mug. It could easily have been interpreted as a casual, friendly gesture, but the contact made the blonde shiver.

"Brenda," the captain murmured with an undercurrent of longing that made her shiver again.

"Sharon," she responded plaintively. She'd told herself she just needed a little contact with the other woman to take the edge off, but now that they were here amid the noise and bustle of the mid-afternoon crowd, Brenda couldn't help wishing that they'd met at Sharon's house or, God, in a hotel.

"This was a terrible idea," Brenda blurted, and Sharon's face fell. She smoothly withdrew her hand, not jerkily but with the usual measured grace, and curled her fingers into a fist.

"It was," she said flatly in the world-weary tone the chief had come to recognize as her response to perceived rejection, and Brenda huffed out a strangled laugh.

"There are too many people. I just want to be with you."

Sharon carefully picked up her own mug and sipped, but Brenda knew her too well not to be able to read relief in those green eyes. "It's probably better for us not to be alone, under the circumstances."

Brenda looked down at her drink, those "circumstances" staring back at her from the foam: she was married to a man she cared for too much to leave but was too weak to keep from cheating on, and she and Sharon Raydor couldn't keep their hands off each other.

"Probably better," she repeated reluctantly, and Sharon smiled again, but this time her eyes were melancholy. Brenda decided she hated that expression and would do anything to make it disappear. "I miss you," the blonde admitted softly, shyly. "I miss my friend Sharon."

"Is that what you want, Brenda Leigh?" Those intense eyes zeroed in on her face. "A friend?"

"I do." The younger woman reached across the table and grabbed Sharon's hand, squeezing tightly, and this time she didn't care how it looked. "I want my friend. I want you. I just – I want _all_ of you, Sharon. You asked me that once, which Sharon I wanted, and I couldn't answer."

"I remember."

"I want all of them."

Sharon's gaze zeroed in on their hands resting atop the table and Brenda wondered if the captain realized her grip was strangling the deputy chief's fingers. "I see," she said very seriously, and then nodded. "I see."

She fell silent, and remained that way for so long that Brenda's pulse began to race unpleasantly. "Sharon?" the blonde finally asked faintly.

"You are married."

Brenda blinked, startled. "I… yeah." She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "Does that mean you're not… that you don't want –"

"I want to." Sharon's jaw tightened and she lifted those intense eyes to Brenda's. "I… really want to."

"So…"

"So." The brunette swallowed hard. Brenda realized that the other woman's breathing had sped up, and then she realized that hers had too. Sharon was so close that Brenda imagined she could feel her warmth, could feel her soft coffee-scented breath on her skin, and yet she wasn't nearly close enough.

"Sharon…"

"When?"

"I – ah – I –" Brenda covered their joined hands with her free one and emitted a small titter, half elated, half horrified. Her eyes searched Sharon's face, and Sharon's searched back. They were doing this. They were making arrangements to meet, to – what? Have dinner, have sex? To have an affair. This was what people having affairs did.

"Brenda Leigh?" Sharon's voice was barely more than a whisper. Her eyes were wider than Brenda had ever seen them.

"Sharon," she answered helplessly, reaching to touch the other woman's neck, her cheek, her hair, not caring if people were watching or staring. "Sharon, Sharon, Sharon –"

"Shh."

"Monday," Brenda said a little desperately, finally answering Sharon's question. "It's too hard to get away during the weekend. Monday," she repeated with more confidence. "Can you -?"

Sharon bit her lip, her eyes determined, the same way she looked during an interview. "I'll make it work. Monday evening, sevenish?"

Brenda nodded, biting her own lip. She felt giddy and sick, and pulled one hand away to grab her latte and gulp it.

"Today's Wednesday," Sharon pointed out. "That's only five days from now."

"Yeah," Brenda agreed faintly, thinking, _Only_ five days? The prospect rolled before her like an eternity, all those hours and minutes. She wanted Sharon now. What had she been thinking? They were squandering the precious time they could carve out to be together, and Brenda was going to have to go downtown before too long, and here was Sharon all calm and collected. Was the captain simply too cool, too logical, to _want_ the way the younger woman did?

"Brenda."

Only as brown eyes snapped up to meet green did Brenda realize she'd been fixating on the other woman's mouth.

"Either stop looking at me like that," Sharon warned in a low, dangerous tone, "or be prepared to do something about it. _Now_."

Brenda sucked in a quick breath, contemplating the flame leaping in those moss-colored eyes. "I'm prepared," she breathed. "But there's no time. We can't go anywhere –"

Sharon stood abruptly. "Wait a moment," she instructed in her no-nonsense Raydor tone, "and then follow me."

Brenda gaped, her gaze automatically drawn to the way that sinfully tight dark denim molded to Sharon's ass as she walked briskly away and disappeared through a doorway with a stylized "WC" sign above it. Her heart thundered. Was Sharon serious? A quickie in the bathroom?

Even as she asked herself the question, Brenda knew Sharon was serious, just as she knew that she, a 47-year-old woman, a deputy chief of the Los Angeles Police Department, was going to follow her. And she did, unsure of how she moved through the crowd of early-afternoon patrons, aware only that she was opening a door and stepping into what turned out to be a short corridor.

She found herself confronting two unisex toilets. One wooden door stood wide open; the other, on the left, was closed. Brenda Leigh gulped and stared at it as if fascinated. She should turn around. She should definitely turn around, sit down, and finish her latte. Sharon had probably been joking anyway. The very idea of Captain Sharon Raydor waiting for her in a public restroom was preposterous. The older woman had probably just had to pee, and Brenda was going to be completely humiliated when she knocked on that door and Sharon realized she'd taken a silly, harmless joke seriously.

Suddenly the door opened slightly, revealing the subject of Brenda's thoughts. "Are you coming in here?" Sharon demanded in that same dangerous tone. "Because if you're not, I'd like to go finish my cappuccino before it's stone cold."

Automatically, Brenda took a step forward, and she felt her arm being seized, herself being tugged into the small space, and heard the door close and lock firmly a split second before her shoulder blades were pressed against it. The wood was scratchy even through her cardigan and Sharon was pressing against her so forcefully that the contact at her back was a little painful, but the warm, soft curves fitting against her own were so heavenly that Brenda was already swimming in the sensation, so she just pressed forward, twining the fingers of one hand in that wonderful hair while the other gripped shamelessly at Sharon's ass. Her muscles quivered with nervous energy and Sharon's soothing voice reached her ears.

"It's all right, Brenda Leigh." Lips moist with gloss ghosted over the corner of her mouth and Sharon's palm cupped her cheek. "I just want to kiss you." Sharon's nose lightly nuzzled wispy blonde curls. "May I kiss you now?"

Oh, God, yes, Brenda thought. In answer she tipped her face up to the taller woman's, presenting parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes, and she heard Sharon's soft, helpless groan an instant before that wonderful mouth covered hers, demanding, devouring.

How could a simple kiss feel so good? It was so good, in fact, that it seemed to open the floodgates, unleashing a torrent of words as Sharon's mouth left hers to explore her jaw, her chin, the column of her neck.

"I want you so much," Brenda heard herself babbling. "All the time; I think about you all the time." Sharp white teeth nipped lightly at her skin and the blonde jerked and gasped. "But I just can't – I can't leave him, Sharon."

The other woman froze instantaneously, and Brenda cursed herself for her inability to keep her stupid mouth closed, a problem that she never seemed to have at work or where her husband was concerned. What the hell was the matter with her? This was what she'd wanted for hours, for days – the highlight of her week – and now she'd gone and ruined it by bringing up her marriage?

Before Brenda could apologize, Sharon's teeth returned to her neck, biting harder this time, but not hard enough to leave a mark. "So selfish," the captain murmured in a low voice, crooning almost as if it were an endearment. "So goddamn selfish, Brenda Leigh. You want it all, don't you?"

Brenda felt like crying, even as what Sharon was doing to her neck made her heart hammer, because she knew it was true and because that wasn't the person she wanted to be. "Let me," she gasped out, not even sure what she was asking for.

Sharon wasn't sure either. She drew herself up to her full height and met Brenda's dark gaze, and then Brenda knew exactly what she was asking for.

"I need you," she said softly, her eyes searching those green ones desperately. "Let me give you what _you_ need."

For an instant Sharon was utterly taken aback – Brenda could read it on her face, which was totally open for that brief space – and then her eyes darkened. "Don't worry about what I need, Brenda," the older woman replied almost sternly, stepping away and looking at her own reflection in the mirror over the sink. "Just give me what I want." White teeth flashed in a predatory slash of a smile. "Give it to me Monday."

Brenda could only look at her, dismayed and a little awed. This was a completely different Sharon from the one who'd had her pressed up against the door a moment before, and different still from the woman who'd been smiling shyly, awaiting her arrival with a latte. Her head swam; she was having a hard time keeping up.

Sharon smoothed her hair and reapplied her lipstick, and then nodded once, apparently satisfied. "Wait a few minutes before you follow me," she said, and Brenda wondered if the captain had done this before. Right now she wouldn't put anything past Sharon Raydor. "And brush your hair. It's a mess."

As the door closed behind Sharon, Brenda turned dazed eyes to her own reflection. Her hair was, indeed, a mess, and so was she, her thoughts spinning so wildly out of control that they were making her dizzy. She closed her eyes, dragged in a deep breath, and gripped the edge of the sink for support.

After a moment she opened her eyes and looked around. At least, she acknowledged, the bathroom was clean.

The Sharon awaiting her return to their table was yet another incarnation of the dark-haired woman, one Brenda didn't recognize. She looked skittish, almost panicked, her eyes flying to Brenda as soon as the blonde appeared and then darting around the interior of the coffee shop. As soon as the deputy chief sat down Sharon blurted, "You should go. Or, no, you should probably wait a couple of minutes. But then you should definitely go."

"Sharon?" Brenda questioned, the other woman's uncharacteristic anxiety making her uneasy as well.

"I think it's all right. I'm sure it's all right. They've gone, and they didn't see you. I hid your coat." Sharon produced a crumpled pink ball that the chief realized was her trench. She also realized that the captain had been sitting on it.

"What on earth are you talkin' about?"

"Sanchez and Gabriel!" Sharon snapped, as if it were self-evident.

"They're _here_?" In the first flush of her panic, Brenda seriously contemplated diving under the table, but managed to stop herself.

"They were. Fortunately they got their drinks to go, although it took forever to make whatever the hell kind of thing Gabriel ordered. I was just waiting for you to come sauntering out of the bathroom." Sharon looked at Brenda with wide, shell-shocked eyes, and emitted a strange little laugh.

"Did they see you?" Brenda demanded.

"Of course they saw me. How very coincidental that I had a doctor's appointment so near your crime scene," the captain shot back.

"Oh." Brenda sank back into her chair, her heart rate gradually beginning to slow. "Oh, well, that's okay, then."

"Yeah." Sharon glanced out the window. "I'd still feel better if you left."

Teeth sank into Brenda's lower lip. "Yeah, I need to be goin' anyway." She sought Sharon's eyes, thrown off balance by everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes. "When will I see you again?"

Sharon's gaze zeroed in on hers. "That's up to you. I've told you I'm free Monday evening."

Brenda felt the telltale twinge above her left brow that signaled an oncoming headache. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The older woman precisely replaced her mug on the table and looked balefully up at the chief. "I'm speaking English, Brenda. It's not code. I simply mean that it's probably a good thing that Monday is five days away. It will give you time to think about what you really want."

Anger and indignation swelled inside Brenda's breast. "I already know what I want. I want you," she insisted. "For heaven's sake, how much 'time to think' do _you_ think I need?"

Sharon smiled. It wasn't a smirk, but neither was it the joyful smile she'd given Brenda less than an hour ago. "At least until Monday," she replied. "And then we'll see. You'd better go, Brenda Leigh."

2.

As soon as Sharon opened the door Brenda felt both ostentatiously overdressed and outclassed by Sharon's understated simplicity, and her breath rushed out in a whoosh. The way those luminous green eyes kindled with a tentative light at the sight of the deputy chief in her doorway filled Brenda with a heady warmth that was a cross between taking a first gulp of a rich, potent wine and being punched in the gut.

Sharon smiled with suppressed excitement. "You came."

Brenda felt herself frown even as she caught the other woman's hand and twined their fingers together. "You didn't think I would?"

"I wasn't sure." The captain drew Brenda Leigh closer and, looping her free arm around the blonde's hips, did something she was much surer about: she kissed her softly. Brenda's lips parted under the slight pressure and their mouths clung, their quick, eager breath mingling moistly.

When they broke apart, Brenda's palm smoothed up Sharon's spine, relishing the feeling of her bones and muscles beneath the thin black cashmere of her sweater, before twining her fingers in the thick, loose curls at the back of the taller woman's skull. "You don't strike me as the type to lack confidence in datin' situations."

Sharon met her gaze evenly. "Do I strike you as the type to sleep with married straight women?" she returned without recrimination.

Brenda had no idea how to answer that, so she didn't. Instead she rested her cheek against Sharon's, embracing her loosely, until the other woman said, "Come on in. Dinner's ready."

Brenda's eyes widened. "Oh, you didn't have to cook!"

Sharon smirked. "I didn't. I got take-out. I hope you like gnocchi."

Brenda did, but Sharon could've fed her cardboard and she wouldn't have cared, as long as this beautiful green-eyed woman sat across the table and smiled occasionally while she ate it.

It felt surprisingly normal to be sitting at Sharon's kitchen table, sharing dinner. After all, this was something they'd done many times over the past several months – just never with the prospect of bare skin and stolen kisses and murmured pleasure stretching before them. Thinking about that made Brenda's heart beat unpleasantly with anxiety and anticipation, so she resolved to concentrate on her dinner, and made it through the meal with surprising ease.

After she had finished, Brenda propped one elbow on the edge of the table and smiled at the other woman. "There's a Fellini retrospective this month at the _." Brenda smiled, pleased with herself for having stumbled upon something Sharon would enjoy.

"I know." Sharon popped the last bite of her gnocchi into her mouth and laid her fork down. "I'm going to see _La Strada_ Friday."

The blonde blinked. "And you didn't tell me?"

Finely sculpted eyebrows arched toward Sharon's hairline. "If you want to keep track of my movements, an ankle monitor would be more efficient."

Brenda huffed out a small laugh. "I just meant I could go with you. I liked that other Italian movie we saw."

Sharon looked at her plate. She appeared to be intently studying a smear of tomato sauce. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that we can't go up to Big Sur some weekend, Brenda. Because you're married. Because we're not dating; we're having an affair." The brunette spoke quickly and then stood, picking up her own plate and reaching for Brenda's. "I'll just put these in the sink and wash them later." After you're gone, she didn't say, but the blonde heard it anyway.

Brenda's thumbnail traced the edge of her napkin. "Goin' to the movies isn't exactly like takin' a vacation together," she pointed out, keeping her voice even. She looked up, seeking soft green eyes.

"No," Sharon agreed quietly, running water over the plates.

"Fritzi knows we're friends, that we spend time together."

"I know that, Brenda. But –" Sharon turned the water off and rested her hands on the edge of the sink. "I just can't. The lie we're telling is bad enough. Let's not compound it."

Brenda stood up, unsure, and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. "Do – do you want me to go?"

"No." The response came immediately. "But if this – arrangement – is going to work, there have to be rules." Her eyes zeroed in on the other woman's. "I need rules, Brenda. That's not negotiable. I need to know that what happens here on Monday nights stays here, and that everything else is… everything else."

The blonde looked half defeated and yet as if she still wanted to argue, but she agreed, "Okay, Sharon. I see." She'd waited too long for this evening, and needed it too badly, to waste the time pursuing an argument she didn't really think she could win. Sharon wasn't like Fritz. While she wasn't the stern, rigid martinet Brenda had once thought her, neither would she just bend to give Brenda her way in order to avoid conflict.

"You do." Sharon sounded as if she wanted to be relieved but couldn't quite let herself. She rounded the end of the counter, wine bottle in hand, and refilled both their glasses. When she put the bottle back down Brenda grabbed her hand, linking their fingers.

"Yeah," she insisted. "I do. I suppose that's the price I have to pay for gettin' mixed up with the LAPD's scariest hall monitor, huh?" Her wide mouth curved into a flirtatious smile, determined to make the awkward moment less awkward than it might have been. Her whole body tingled with relief and excitement as the taller woman blindly put her glass down on the table and hooked two fingers through Brenda's belt loops, drawing her forward until their breasts and thighs brushed but not actually embracing her. The tantalizing proximity of their bodies was enough to make the chief shiver with delicious warmth.

"That's good, chief." Those luminous green eyes had darkened with promise and glittered teasingly, and Brenda knew Sharon was every bit as relieved as she was to avoid an unpleasant discussion. "You're being a very good girl. And good girls who follow rules deserve to be rewarded."

"Do I get a gold star?"

Sharon smirked. "If that's what you'd rather have."

Brenda grinned, her pulse thumping rapidly. "No, captain, I'm sure whatever you had in mind will be just fine."

3.

What Sharon had in mind involved considerably less clothing, as it turned out.

Brenda lay on Sharon's bed, where the captain had placed her, completely naked and exposed, but too interested in watching the other woman disrobe to feel self-conscious. As she eagerly watched, Sharon's cashmere sweater joined the pants already pooled on the rug, and she reached back to unhook her lacy black bra, a movement that lifted her breasts up and out toward the blonde, and Brenda stirred restlessly. On second thought, Sharon left the garment in place, and sauntered toward Brenda Leigh.

There was a glint of understanding humor in her dark green eyes as Sharon knelt on the bed between Brenda's splayed legs. Just the slide of the older woman's smooth, muscular thigh against the inside of Brenda's knee called forth a low hum of pleasure, and Sharon smiled softly. Brenda tilted her head, watching as the captain watched her. Her blood felt thick with the weight of her desire.

Sharon's fingertips ghosted over the smooth, vulnerable skin between Brenda's navel and the top lacy edge of the crimson panties she'd bought for the occasion (not that she'd tell the captain that), and Brenda felt her abdominal muscles clench, accompanied by a gush of wetness between her legs. No one had ever aroused her as effortlessly as this woman did. "Ooh," she sighed, the sound high-pitched. The brunette's gaze was trained on her own hand as she continued her light, unhurried caresses, her fingers making a shallow foray under the edge of the fabric, just brushing springy curls. Brenda's hips shifted restlessly, and Sharon's dark green eyes tracked slowly up the smaller woman's body, lingering on her breasts, before meeting her chocolate gaze.

The look on her face was enough to make Brenda pant. Sharon's expression was intense, focused, and her eyes flamed with molten want that swept over the blonde's senses like lava. That look was greedy, hungry, predatory; she looked as if she wanted to devour the woman stretched out before her. Her silky fingertips traced the top edge of Brenda's panties again, very slowly, and Brenda squirmed.

"So sexy," Sharon said in a low, rough voice that vibrated right between Brenda's legs where she urgently craved her captain's touch. "Brenda Leigh, you are so fucking sexy."

The precise enunciation of the raw word, the way the syllables looked being shaped by that perfect mouth, was so erotic that Brenda whimpered and grabbed both of Sharon's legs just above her knees, the only parts of her the blonde could reach without altering their positions. How could Sharon be talking about her? If only the other woman could see herself. With her hair spilling over one shoulder, her gloriously full breasts swelling above the black lace that encased them, and her eyes alight with pure heat, Sharon Raydor looked like some pagan deity, a demon-goddess, and Brenda wanted to worship her.

"You," Brenda insisted breathlessly. "Sharon, please –"

Needing to touch as much of the other woman as she possibly could, Brenda sat up just enough to grab Sharon's shoulder and pull her down on top of her own body. One of Brenda's hands shamelessly grabbed Sharon's ass, roughly squeezing as much of the supple flesh as she could, while her other hand fisted itself in that wealth of dark hair, and Sharon obligingly brought her mouth to Brenda's so they could kiss.

Brenda was frantic, but Sharon repeatedly battled the smaller woman's tongue out of her mouth until the blonde conceded in a momentary fit of frustration, and then Sharon rewarded her, kissing her softly and languorously as minutes drifted by. She toyed with Brenda's hair, scratched gently at her scalp, and it was wonderful. How, Brenda wondered, half angry, did Sharon always know what would be just right?

Brenda Leigh might be a relative newcomer to this particular field of play, but she was hardly a novice at sex itself, and she had no intention of always letting Ms. I-Must-Go-First run the show. So thinking, she sucked gently at the brunette's pulse point, and used her strong legs to reverse their positions, flipping the unsuspecting captain onto her back.

For a second Sharon looked taken aback, perhaps irritated, and then she laughed, the skin around her eyes crinkling in the way the younger woman loved. Brenda dipped her head to kiss those laugh lines, and then simply rested atop her lover's body, gazing down at her, at the way her eyes sparkled and her chestnut hair spread over the cream-colored pillowcase. She was so beautiful that Brenda felt completely full, overwhelmed. She wanted to do so much with Sharon; she wanted to do everything, things she hadn't even imagined yet. She just didn't know quite where to begin.

Sharon's smile grew sly. "Need an instruction manual, Brenda Leigh?"

Brenda grinned. "I think I'll manage. I didn't hear any complaints before."

So saying, she bent her head and lightly, playfully nibbled Sharon's earlobe before very slowly working her way to down her neck, determined to show this insufferable woman just how good she could be. Very quickly, though, something changed: the blonde forgot that she'd set out to prove a point, becoming absorbed in the spicy, soapy scent of Sharon's skin, the way it felt against her lips, the way she could feel the other woman's pulse beating there, faster and faster. This is Sharon, she told herself dizzily. This is Sharon.

The skin swelling above the black lace of Sharon's bra was unbelievably soft, and Brenda softly stroked it with one knuckle, fascinated. "So pretty," she whispered, following the line her finger had drawn with her lips until the lace got in the way, rough and scratchy in comparison to the silken skin, and impatiently dragged the fabric out of the way, revealing one dark rose nipple. This she traced with the pad of one finger, growing more and more fascinated, more eager, as she watched it swell and harden, as if she'd never seen anything so miraculous in her life.

"Brenda."

"Hmm?" the blonde murmured dreamily, repeating the process on the other side.

"_Brenda_." This time Sharon covered the other woman's hand with her own, and Brenda finally looked up to find Sharon blushing slightly, her lips curved in a chagrined smile. "You're making me feel like a science experiment."

Dark eyes widened in surprise, and then a flush stained Brenda's cheeks as well. She cupped Sharon's cheek, her thumb resting affectionately against her lips. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just want to see you. I want to see all of you."

Something glimmered in those green eyes, and Sharon tugged Brenda's face back up to hers, kissing her swiftly and hard. Then she pushed her away again, and before Brenda had a chance to be startled, sat up and quickly whipped off her bra, and then lay back and shimmied out of the matching panties. She lay back, her chest rising and falling as she took deep breaths. "Well, here I am," she murmured in a low, rough voice. "All of me, Brenda Leigh."

Brenda's even white teeth sank into her lower lip and her pulse raced. "Here you are," she repeated, and then, for reasons she couldn't fathom, she felt tears pricking at her eyes. She returned her mouth to Sharon's breast, sucking in earnest now, as her hand mapped Sharon's side, tracing over her ribcage, the swell of her hip, the soft curve of her inner thigh. Sharon sighed and spread her legs wider in invitation, and Brenda shyly pressed her palm between her legs, shivering when she encountered moist heat. Her fingers crept lower, exploring her captain, and Sharon hummed, rocking slightly, encouraging the contact. She lightly brushed over Sharon's clitoris, learning the feel of her, and the dark-haired woman drew one knee up, completely exposing herself to Brenda's avid, curious gaze.

Sharon shivered, watching Brenda's face, and when Brenda's tongue slipped out to moisten her lips, Sharon couldn't resist the urge to cover Brenda's fingers with her own and press more firmly, increasing the pressure where she wanted it. It was strangely arousing to be scrutinized so closely, to have all that attention and curiosity focused completely on her. Somehow it made her feel powerful, even as she lay back to allow the younger woman to do whatever she wanted with her.

Instinctively the blonde began to make small circles, just the kind she liked herself, and after a moment Sharon's eyes drifted closed and she removed her hand, leaving Brenda to learn what she liked.

Brenda learned fast, and quickly settled into the slow, steady rhythm that never failed to drive the sedate captain wild. Her hips undulated, grinding against the movement of Brenda's fingers; and when those fingers trailed through her slick, wet folds to tease the hyper-sensitive nerve endings just outside her opening, Sharon moaned unashamedly in relief. One finger slid carefully inside, the slow penetration making Sharon moan again and spread her legs wider.

"There? Like that?" The questions were on the tip of Brenda's tongue, but they never made it any further, because Sharon's response obviated the need. Her hips jerked and her internal muscles tightened around the younger woman's seeking finger.

"Yes, oh -" she gasped on a high, thin filament of sound. "More, Brenda."

As a relative beginner at this particular activity, Brenda decided the best thing to do was use both hands, just like Clay had first taught her to drive using two feet. Her free hand smoothed down Sharon's stomach to the swell of her pubic bone, fingers gliding further to gather a bit of the moisture slicking her swollen flesh, and then her thumb settled on Sharon's clit, resuming the steady circles, rubbing more firmly now. Sharon chuckled at her technique, but the chuckle trailed off in a low, agonized moan when Brenda flicked at the exposed tip, and the blonde smiled to herself.

"Fuck, don't stop."

It was Brenda's turn to chuckle. "I wasn't planning to."

She felt clumsy thinking of Sharon's elegant, economical movements when she'd done this for Brenda, but if the way Sharon was arching into her touch was any indication, the older woman still had no complaints. Brenda listened to the halting gasps of her lover's breath, a quick, harsh inhalation followed by seconds of silence as she held everything inside, all her concentration focused on what Brenda was doing to her.

The chief added a second finger, and then a third, feeling Sharon's body stretch to accommodate her, and Sharon hissed, "Yes, fuck me." Her muscles seized around Brenda's fingers and the blonde felt it all the way up her arm, like fire arcing through her. She was fucking Sharon. Fucking Sharon, fucking Sharon, her mind repeated, reeling at the reality. She crooked her fingers, pressing firmly the way Sharon had shown her, and felt the captain tremble. Encouraged, she pressed even harder, wary of hurting the other woman. Sharon gasped twice, two quick, stuttering inhalations, and then released a low keening sound as she came. Her internal muscles rippled, pulling Brenda's fingers further into her body, and Sharon yanked so hard at the fitted sheet that it popped off the corner of the mattress. Rapt, Brenda watched the way Sharon's teeth sank into her lower lip, the way she kept her eyes tightly closed as she absorbed every bit of sensation. Brenda tried to frame the moment perfectly in her mind so she could keep it with her: the moment when she'd made Sharon Raydor fly apart, forget everything else, if only for a few seconds. Brenda already knew she'd do anything to make that happen over and over again.

The captain finally went completely still, and Brenda slowly withdrew her fingers, admiring the way they glistened with her lover's thick come. She brought her hand to her mouth and lapped at her fingers before drawing them fully into her mouth, tasting the musky, earthy flavor. She sighed contentedly and Sharon hummed, and Brenda's gaze tracked up Sharon's body to find heated green eyes focused on what she was doing.

"Not only do you feel different," Brenda said now, her eyes twinkling, "but you taste different. A little bit salty, but earthy and almost sweet." Emboldened by Sharon's keen, attentive gaze, Brenda Leigh ducked her head and let her tongue travel gently from Sharon's opening up to her clit, mindful of oversensitive nerves, gathering as much of her moisture on the flat of her tongue as she possibly could, as if Sharon were an ice-cream cone. The blonde then crawled up Sharon's body so she could look her in the eye as she held the taste of her lover on her tongue, savoring it. "I like it," the younger woman murmured throatily, punctuating the sentence with a flirtatious laugh. "I could become a connoisseur."

Brenda recognized the dark heat flickering in those eyes as Sharon smirked and then tugged at her shoulder, pulling the smaller woman's body down to lie flush with hers. "You want to become a connoisseur, hmm, Brenda Leigh? You know there's only one way to go about that."

The suggestive tone in that low, sensual voice made Brenda shiver with delighted anticipation. "Oh, yeah?" Was that her voice, that high, breathless little squeak like a 1950s starlet's? "What's that, capt'n?"

Sharon chuckled and nipped at her neck before rolling them again so the captain was back on top, where she clearly preferred to be. "I find that showing is a much more powerful instructional tool than telling, chief."

"I'm an excellent student."

"Oh, I'm sure you are." Grinning knowingly, the dark-haired woman sat up and hooked her fingers into the sides of those crimson panties. "These are very nice, Brenda Leigh. Did you pick them out for me?"

"Yes," Brenda breathed, flushing and glowing with pleasure. So much for not revealing that little fact to Sharon; but Brenda Leigh was happy, flattered that the other woman had guessed. Plenty of times in the past, she'd bought lingerie to wear for a special someone. None of them had ever noticed.

"They're very pretty," Sharon murmured, carefully drawing the lacy scrap of fabric down Brenda's legs, stopping in the process to kiss the younger woman's knee. "Now, are you ready for your first lesson?"

"Absolutely," Brenda declared breathlessly. "But there is one thing you should probably know before we go any further."

"What's that?" Sharon asked gently. Brenda knew she was waiting to hear that Brenda had never had a woman go down on her, and had certainly never done it herself. Well, of course she hadn't; but Sharon already knew that, so there was no point telling her.

Instead Brenda widened her eyes and strove to look as innocent as possible. She read the tender patience in Sharon's bottomless green eyes and almost felt bad. Almost. "It's just - I know you're the teacher, Ms. Raydor, and I'm the student, so it's inappropriate -"

Sharon's own eyes had widened for a second when Brenda began to speak, but now she was smirking. "Yes, Brenda Leigh?" she encouraged, and the blonde tossed her a saucy little smile.

"You're just so smart and so sexy, that I can't help havin' these fantasies about you, ma'am," Brenda continued, unable to keep a straight face.

Sharon just smirked, her fingers stroking the skin where the younger woman's thigh met her crotch. "Hot for teacher, Brenda Leigh? Do you think it might help if you described some of those fantasies to me?"

One delicate finger traced through the folds of Brenda's sex, almost clinically, and she rocked on the bed. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sure it would." Brown eyes sparkled wickedly. "But I'm embarrassed. They're very explicit. You might send me to the principal."

Equally unable to keep up the charade with a straight face, Sharon laughed merrily as she coaxed Brenda to bend her knees, making a place for herself to lie between them. "That's all right," she murmured, and now Brenda could feel her warm breath on the most intimate part of her body. It was all she could do not to arch toward Sharon's mouth. Soft brown hair tickled her inner thigh, and Brenda felt more than heard the words against her swollen flesh as Sharon concluded, "I think I can guess."

4.

When the phone rang, yanking Brenda summarily from a heavy sleep, her first, panicked thought was that it was the middle of the night and Fritz was calling to find out where in the world she'd disappeared to (again). But after a few seconds her sleepy brain processed two facts: that was not her ring tone, and according to Sharon's alarm clock it was only 9:30. Her husband was hardly likely to be calling out a search party just yet.

"Raydor," Sharon snapped out gruffly, expecting a call-out, just as Brenda would have done in her position. Brenda twisted around to see her half sitting up, her hair streaming over her bare shoulders. She was gorgeous.

It was a call-out, of sorts, but not from the LAPD. From where she lay, Brenda could hear the tearful voice sniffling on the other end of the line.

"Mom, it's me," Claire managed to get out relatively clearly between sobs. "I need you."


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: This is the last double-chapter posting, I promise. I'm not trying to bury anyone under the deluge of my scribbling. Now what's posted here is all caught up with what I've posted on Livejournal, so we can proceed. Thanks for your patience, to anyone who's still reading!_

**Chapter 19: Parallel Lines**

1.

"Are you almost ready to go? We're supposed to meet the realtor in thirty minutes," Sharon reminded, leaning in the doorway of the beach cottage's second bedroom. "Generally, arriving late doesn't convey the impression that one is a reliable prospective tenant."

Claire barely glanced at her mother. "I'm ready. I just need to put my boots on."

"You're going like that?" The instant the words left her lips, Sharon knew she should have swallowed them. Her daughter sent her a poisonous glare.

"I'm so glad you came up here to dispense your invaluable fashion advice," the younger woman snapped. "I'm pretty sure none of these places give a shit what I look like as long as I can put down a deposit."

Sharon pressed her lips together. If her daughter wanted to go out in public in the clothes she'd slept in and no bra, that was her business, although she was fairly certain Claire was doing this in large part to provoke an argument with her mother. She wasn't going to get one. "Let's go, then."

"I'm driving." Motorcycle boots yanked on over her pajama bottoms, Claire stalked toward her jeep, the captain following more calmly. Sharon glanced at her watch. This was hour twenty-two of her youngest child's foul mood; she was getting used to it. She sighed quietly.

Forty-five minutes later, Sharon was scrambling up into the old jeep for the second time that day. "There is no way you're living there," she declared adamantly.

"Of course not. It's a shit-hole. I knew it would be."

The captain bit her lip, fighting a headache. She needed more coffee. Maybe espresso; the situation was becoming dire. "If you knew it was a shit-hole, why did you make an appointment to look at it?"

"You made the appointment, not me."

"Because you asked me to, Claire."

She shrugged dispassionately. "I have to live somewhere."

"Not there. Are you hungry? We have half an hour before the next appointment."

"No."

"Well, I am, and you need to eat. What do you want? Tacos?"

Claire shrugged, her expression stony, and Sharon tried to decide whether this incarnation of her daughter was preferable to the hysterical wreck Claire had been on the phone Monday night.

Like any good parent, the first thing Sharon had done at the time, with Brenda Leigh looking on wide-eyed and instinctively grabbing the hand that wasn't clutching her cell and cradling it, had been to ascertain that her youngest was not in acute bodily peril.

The distress was mental. Obviously something had transpired with Rachel, although Claire was not forthcoming with the details. "I have to move out," she'd kept repeating. "I have to go _now_."

"Did Rachel ask you to leave?" Sharon had asked cautiously.

"What? Jesus, Mom, no. Fuck."

That had been the first appearance of the surly creature who'd greeted the captain upon her arrival at the Raydors' beach house early Tuesday afternoon; and she hadn't departed since, although Sharon had listened to Claire attempt to muffle her sobs through much of the previous night. Her heart ached for her child. But that didn't mean she didn't also want to shake her.

Her phone chimed, signaling an incoming text, and Sharon permitted herself the slightest of smiles. Obviously Brenda was having a slow day at the office, although Sharon couldn't deny that she appreciated all the little messages of affection and concern. Since Claire was clearly uninterested in conversing, Sharon withdrew her phone from her handbag and activated the screen.

_The boys want to know why I'm in such a good mood this week, since we're stuck doing paperwork. _

Sharon smirked, and Claire looked over, surprising the expression on her face. "Who keeps texting you? And don't say it's work," the redhead appended fiercely.

"I wasn't planning to." Sharon slipped her phone back into the side pocket of her purse.

"So it's Brenda."

Claire looked over to see the supple lines of her mother's mouth tighten, although her eyes were shielded by her oversized sunglasses. "You're sleeping with her," the younger woman breathed.

Sharon froze, and then, after a few seconds, sighed. "Don't, Claire."

"You're not going to bother denying it?" Claire's motorcycle-boot-clad foot pressed down on the accelerator as she took a corner too sharply, and Sharon's knuckles tightened on the door handle.

"Watch the road," she said thinly.

They were silent until Claire pulled to an abrupt stop in the parking lot of a modest apartment building. Apparently they weren't having lunch. She grabbed her messenger bag and yanked the keys from the ignition, and then realized that the captain remained completely motionless. "Mom?"

"I'm waiting for my lecture," Sharon replied flatly, sounding defeated. "Go ahead and get it out of your system."

"What? I – No. What's the point? You're just such a hypocrite."

Sharon's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline in surprise. That wasn't what she had expected. "Excuse me?"

"You keep telling me not to get involved with Rachel because she has a boyfriend –"

"Wait just a minute. I never told you not to get involved with Rachel; your own common sense told you that."

"Well then, where's your common sense? I'm not the one screwing someone who's _married_."

"Don't be vulgar, Claire."

"It _is_ vulgar, Mom. It's disgusting."

Sharon opened her mouth and then snapped it closed, her own problems on the back burner as her maternal radar pinged incessantly. "Oh, honey," she said softly. "Baby, what happened? Did you and Rachel –"

"Yeah," Claire admitted dully. "And now she won't even talk to me. She's pretty much moved in with Matt; I haven't even seen her since last weekend. She's acting like it was all my fault, like I _made_ her do it or something, and I just can't stand to be there without her, and I don't think she's ever going to forgive me, but what did _I_ do that was so wrong? And what you're doing is worse, and you're not even sorry –" Claire broke off, choking, and turned to stare out the side window.

"Oh, God." Sharon closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the seat rest. Her phone beeped again, impatient.

"Aren't you going to get it? It's your girlfriend," her daughter snapped bitterly.

Sharon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm so sorry," she said, her voice soft. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

They were quiet for several minutes.

"I'm not going to lecture you, so go ahead and make your speech."

Sharon raised her eyebrows and sighed. "I don't have a speech." She looked down at her phone where it lay, the message alert light blinking. "I don't have any disingenuous rhetoric to justify this. You're right: I'm doing something fairly disgusting, and I ought to be ashamed of myself. I _am_ ashamed of myself," she admitted heavily. "I don't – Claire, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't want to know."

Silence fell heavily between them, as if Sharon's quietly spoken words had sucked all the oxygen and most of the animosity out of the jeep's interior. Sharon felt flat, deflated, as if her precarious bubble of happiness had been punctured, revealing just how flimsy and vulnerable it had been. What the _fuck_ was she doing? This wasn't who she was. This wasn't what she did.

"Come on," Claire said after several minutes, jostling her mother's elbow. "Let's go see this apartment. Maybe it won't have roaches and water damage."

Sharon automatically reached for her phone and then, after a slight hesitation, powered it off. "Let's go," she agreed, slipping the hunk of plastic into the depths of her purse. And then the captain slid out onto the pavement and walked with her daughter across the parking lot, the heels of their boots tapping sedately.

2.

Brenda scooped up her phone the instant it began to ring, not caring if that made her seem desperate and uncool. "Sharon?"

"Hi, Brenda."

"Hey." A beat. "Is everythin' okay? I've been worried about you. You stopped answering my texts."

"I'm sorry you were concerned. I just – Claire needed me."

Brenda bit her lip. This was almost the other woman's Captain Raydor voice, the one responding to her. "How's she doing?"

"A bit better. We found her a new apartment."

"Oh, that's good," said Brenda Leigh, because she didn't know what else to say. There was something else, something in Sharon's voice, that was making her profoundly uneasy; and yet that didn't make any sense, because the captain sounded very calm, speaking in her usual even, measured tones.

"I'm calling about tonight."

It was Monday. Brenda certainly hadn't forgotten. She had been lingering in the office after sending her squad home, unwilling to go home, unsure if she should go to Sharon's or not.

"I can't meet you."

"Oh." Brenda heard how her voice had instantly been hollowed out by disappointment. "Is – are you sure nothin's wrong?"

"No, no." Another slight pause. "I'm still in Santa Cruz."

"Oh," Brenda repeated, jealous resentment pricking at her – which was ridiculous. She could hardly be jealous of Sharon's daughter.

"It's not like I have a job to rush back to," the other woman said drily.

"No. Yeah, you should spend some time with Claire. Or just up at the beach. Is that where you're stayin'? It's so nice there. Peaceful," Brenda offered wistfully.

"I should have called earlier, but I thought I might be… back."

"It's okay," Brenda reassured. "I understand. I just miss you."

The pause was so long that Brenda thought one of their phones had dropped the call, and prodded at hers to activate the screen. The call timer was still ticking away. "Sharon?"

"I miss you too. Bye, Brenda."

"Bye. Have fun."

Sharon ended the call and took a long, much-needed drink of the Chablis that had been hiding at the back of the refrigerator. She drew one knee to her chest and looked around her quiet living room, peering into the deepening shadows. The sun was setting. Birds chirped on the patio, making the most of the mild Los Angeles evening.

She'd intended to end things between them, of course. It was too absurd for her to be impaled on the point of a triangle that mirrored the one in her twenty-two-year-old daughter's life. With the clear sight of a spectator, she could see perfectly that Claire was doing the right thing, removing herself from the situation (even if she needed her mother to drive up the coast and play the part of the heavy). She saw just as clearly that she needed to do the same, and now she couldn't un-see it. She couldn't just close her eyes.

But she'd allowed herself to cheat. Breaking tonight's date with Brenda, lying to her – that's what it was, cheating her conscience. Denying herself something she desperately wanted so she could reward herself with it in the future, tomorrow or next week. Brenda was cheating on her husband; Sharon was cheating on herself. It seemed appropriate.

Sharon tipped more of the wine bottle's contents into her glass and toasted the empty living room. "Here's to us, Brenda Leigh," she said aloud. "Match made in heaven."

3.

When Brenda answered the phone with a cautiously businesslike "Captain?" Sharon immediately knew she shouldn't have called.

"Bad time?"

"I'm just discussing a case-related matter with Lieutenant Provenza and Agent Howard."

Every sensible particle of Sharon's being told her to make a graceful excuse and hang up. Instead she blurted, "I need to see you."

A few beats of stunned silence were her reply, and Sharon cringed. Then Brenda resumed, even more cautiously than before, "I think that can be arranged, Captain, but I'll have to get back to you."

"Of course," Sharon heard herself say, her voice hollow in the quiet, still interior of her car. She took a deep breath and fumbled to slip back inside her Captain Raydor persona. "Until later, then. Good-bye, chief."

She dropped her cell phone unceremoniously onto the passenger seat and brought both hands up to squeeze the cool plastic of the steering wheel. She gazed listlessly at the façade of the brick building across the parking lot.

What was left of Elizabeth Marie Wright Raydor was in that building, but not, Sharon thought, for much longer. Not anywhere for much longer.

She wasn't exactly sure why it had hit her so hard today. Sharon visited her mother every week – every Monday, unless she was too deeply embroiled in a case or, you know, she was too busy having illicit sex with her married lover. Or unless she was too depressed about not having illicit sex with her married lover, like yesterday. Initially, even though Elizabeth didn't always know her daughter when she was present, she became restless and agitated when the middle-aged woman with the long brown hair and green eyes failed to appear. The nursing home staff had spoken to Sharon about the importance of routine and regularity for dementia patients, and she had readily understood.

Now Sharon's mother, the woman who had French-braided her hair and sung show tunes and devoured _The Second Sex_ in the original French, was too far away for anyone to reach her, but Sharon continued to come every Monday, with the aforementioned exceptions. Routine and regularity weren't just important to dementia patients. And she wouldn't let Elizabeth be left alone, even with the competent, unusually kind staff. (Oh, the captain had vetted them relentlessly.) Kitty's life was back East, where it had been for the last forty years; Russ drove down from Portland one weekend every month or two, stopping on the way to pick up their father so he could visit his wife of more than fifty years. But it was Sharon who came every Monday.

Or Tuesday. Today was Tuesday, she reminded herself. Elizabeth hadn't seemed to notice the difference – or to notice anything else – but Sharon had. As if it weren't bad enough that Sharon was having an affair, now she was abandoning her sick mother in order to do it (or not to do it). Her plate contained a heaping helping of guilt. It was hardly surprising that she felt like shit.

It had started to rain, a thin mist that complemented the dull gray sky and suited Sharon's mood. She gave herself a little mental shake and turned the key in the ignition. Perhaps, she thought, she had a masochistic streak. (Her job would seem to suggest as much, wouldn't it? Maybe her current relationship with Brenda Leigh Johnson proved it.) And yet watching more of Elizabeth slip away week by week, registering each minute alteration with brutal honesty, was easier than staying away for longer intervals and then being confronted by the changes all at once. Sometimes Sharon even made lists: lost two pounds, had to be fed intravenously this week. It made this more manageable. It gave Sharon the illusion of control.

She knew all the time that it was an illusion, but today, trying to catch a glimmer of light in the pale blue eyes that only stared, unfocused, into some abstract distance Sharon couldn't fathom, the illusion had shattered. Now Sharon felt shell-shocked, as if she'd escaped from a bomb blast, her ears ringing and her skin grazed by flying debris.

"The holidays," an unobtrusive R.N. had murmured sympathetically – perhaps empathetically; Sharon didn't know the woman, so she didn't know – "are hard, aren't they?"

Maybe that was it. (Sharon automatically pointed her car toward home, listening to the wheels glide on the slick asphalt.) Thanksgiving was two days away. Thanksgiving had never been a huge event in the Raydor family. Christmas was when aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents poured in for tree-trimming and midnight mass and presents you knew you didn't really want but that still sparkled alluringly under the twinkle lights. Still, maybe the absence of an anticipated gathering brought that other, more central absence into sharp focus.

One Thanksgiving in the early seventies Elizabeth had astounded her family and the neighbors by merrily grilling steaks rather than basting the expected turkey. "You know," she'd said with a conspiratorial wink at her middle child, "I never have liked turkey."

The captain smiled to herself. She'd go to the market on Wednesday and get herself a nice fillet.

She had just kicked off her shoes and was moving through the downstairs rooms switching on lights to combat the internal and external gloom when her phone rang.

"Are you okay?" asked an anxious voice, and it was Brenda, not the deputy chief.

"Yes," Sharon replied, deciding she meant it. "Yes, I shouldn't have called."

"No, it's – I wanna see you too. Are you at home?"

Stupidly, Sharon nodded, and then realized the other woman couldn't see her. "Yes."

"Great! I just left work. I need to go by the house, but then I'll come over. In about an hour?"

Sharon smiled slightly. "I'd like that," she admitted.

"Okay, then. Me too. I don't think I can wait a whole extra week to see you." She could tell Brenda was smiling too. "See you soon."

A few minutes later Sharon stepped out onto the patio, her body tucked into the narrow space that was shielded by the overhanging eaves, a glass of cabernet in one hand, and lit a cigarette. She was embarrassed and a little disturbed by how badly she did want to see Brenda. Not for sex; wanting her for sex was one thing. But tonight Sharon wanted to drink wine and maybe rest her head on the blonde's shoulder while they sat on the sofa, maybe talk about her mother. She wanted all the non-sexual things that came with having a lover.

Sharon was very much afraid that what she needed, just for tonight, was to pretend that Brenda Leigh wasn't married to a very nice man who loved her very much and whom she loved in return.

A little harmless indulgence, she reassured herself, taking a long drag on a Marlboro, after an unexpectedly rough afternoon. She indulged herself so seldom.

When Jonathan called two hours later, she had finished the cigarettes and opened another pack, and was draining the bottle of cabernet. She'd also moved her party into the kitchen and was using a ramekin as an ashtray, because, fuck it, it was her house and she was fifty-three years old and she could do as she pleased.

"Hi, sweetheart," she greeted her son extra warmly. "How's my aspiring young physician?"

A pause. "Uh, fine. Listen, do you have plans for Thursday? I mean, am I supposed to be coming over, or –"

"Nope," Sharon replied unceremoniously.

Another pause. "Okay. Because one of my friends invited me to her parents' house, but I wanted to check first – Are you okay?"

She waved the words away as if he could see her. Johnny – her sweet, sensitive Johnny, raised in a house filled with women. It was a wonder that Claire had turned out to be the queer one; how Jonathan hadn't run screaming from women remained a mystery to his mother. "I'm fine, baby. Peachy keen."

"You don't sound fine. You sound drunk."

"I'm drunk and fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite," she retorted firmly. "Goodbye, Jonathan."

"Bye, Mom. I love you."

"Love you too, son."

She hadn't done too badly in the motherhood department, Sharon figured, what with John and Claire. She'd managed to raise two children who didn't hate her, and hey, two outta three ain't bad.

She stubbed her cigarette out in the ramekin. Her head was beginning to ache from the smoke, and she hadn't eaten dinner, although she knew she should have. It had just seemed like too much work.

And obviously Brenda Leigh wasn't coming. She might have been called out to a scene, but she could've bothered to call, or at least text.

Sharon shoved that thought aside, because she felt a little too much like a child who'd just been taught an unpleasant object lesson. _Now you see, Sharon, this is why spur-of-the-moment phone calls and impromptu trysts are a bad idea. This is why we have rules_.

She might as well just go to bed. At least she'd had enough to drink that she probably wouldn't dream.

4.

"Sharon? Were you sleepin'?"

"Yes, I _was_ sleeping," the captain snapped pointedly, her eyes still closed and her phone clamped to her ear. She needed a large glass of water, stat, and on a Tuesday morning, which was just pathetic.

"It's after seven. I thought you'd be awake."

Brenda sounded mildly apologetic. Sharon remembered that she was irritated with the deputy chief, but mostly with herself, and said nothing.

"I called to apologize."

"For what?" Sharon replied coolly.

"For not showin' up last night." Brenda's tone had turned a bit bewildered.

"And yet the world continues turning."

"All right, you're mad; I get it. You don't have to be a bitch about it. I _am_ sorry."

"Okay. You're sorry, and I need coffee."

"Is that it? For heaven's sake, it's not like I just forgot that we had plans –"

"But we didn't have plans," Sharon cut in.

"My parents are here," Brenda continued, eager to explain. "I thought they were comin' in today, but it was last night, and when I got home there they were, and Mama had made dinner –"

"Okay, Brenda." Sharon sat up slowly, feeling chilled and hollow, and swung her feet to the floor. Last night she might have been interested in having this conversation. Last night she was drunk and emotional and having an uncharacteristically weak moment. Today she was sober, if hungover; everything had fallen back into place, and she realized a few cups of strong black coffee would be much more comforting than the presence of a drawling deputy chief. And if they weren't much more comforting, they would certainly be safer and saner.

"Don't be mad," Brenda wheedled, and _that_ raised Sharon's hackles.

"Don't try to manipulate me," she returned. "I know how you work, Chief Johnson. Is there anything else? I need coffee and a shower, and at this rate I'm going to be late for not-going-to-work."

There was a pause, and then Brenda spoke quietly. "You're actin' funny."

"You woke me up."

"Are you always this pleasant in the morning?" Brenda tried to tease.

"Always," Sharon replied, heading cautiously toward the kitchen. "So it's a good thing you don't have to have first-hand knowledge. Another benefit of our relationship," she added flippantly, and winced at her own brittle tone. _Christ, I hope I have enough beans that are already ground_, she thought. She wasn't sure she could take the ungodly noise of the coffee grinder just now.

"I really want to see you, but it's gonna be hard, with Mama and Daddy here all week –"

Sharon snorted. "I'm not particularly fantastic company at the moment anyway. Bye, Brenda. Go enjoy your family."

5.

A few miles away, Brenda Leigh screwed her face up and frowned at her cell phone. She'd detected the malicious pleasure in that parting shot. She dearly loved her parents, but six days with Clay and Willie Rae was a lot for anybody to… enjoy. "That _woman_," she muttered under her breath.

Perversely, the twist of anger was echoed by a throb of arousal low in her belly. She had a sudden, shockingly vivid vision of herself turning Sharon over her knee and slapping her bare bottom with the flat of her hand, just enough to sting and make a solid, satisfying smacking sound.

"Brenda Leigh, how 'bout pancakes this morning?"

The sound of Willie Rae's voice had Brenda jumping and flushing a brilliant scarlet. "Uh, yeah, Mama," she replied guiltily, conjuring up a bright smile. "I suppose I have time for pancakes, but then I ought to be getting' down to the office to check on –"

"Fritz told us you had time off." This was Clay, looming in the entrance to the living room. "Your mother and I thought it might be nice actually to _spend some time_ with you on one of our visits out here to L.A."

Brenda fervently hoped her smile didn't waver and made a mental note to thank Fritz later. He had actually submitted the vacation request on her behalf when she'd taken too long about it, and when confronted with her indignation, he'd said, "Look, your parents are lovely people, but they're_ your parents_" in a tone that brooked no argument.

It was, she thought, a fine time for her husband to tire of playing Host with the Most.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: Let Us Give Thanks**

1.

"Are you busy?" Brenda asked, her voice reverently hushed, as if they were in a church instead of standing on Sharon's porch.

The older woman thought of saying yes, just for spite – but that would be a classic case of cutting off her nose to spite her face if ever there was one. She was busy eating the entirety of a pumpkin pie and downing red wine from the bottle while she watched _Sophie's Choice_, the most depressing film ever made and one that never failed to make her cry. She'd been welling up when the doorbell had rung, partly thanks to Meryl, but largely due to her own self-disgust. She was throwing herself a big ol' pity party, complete with engraved invitations, and while she couldn't seem to stop it, she was also rabidly angry with herself. For the hundred thousandth time in the last month she thought_, This is not who I am. This is not what I do._

But it was, wasn't it? And she was doing it.

The willowy blonde was clearly taken aback by the fury snapping in those green eyes, and she hovered in the doorway like a child fascinated by a house fire and unable to run away. "Is it a bad time?"

"No worse than any other," Sharon snapped, and as brown eyes widened she grabbed Brenda by both arms and yanked her into the house, slamming the door.

"I missed you," Brenda began in a small, lost voice, and Sharon growled, "Shut up." She slammed their mouths together, kissing the smaller woman so forcefully that it hurt them both and she tasted the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Brenda's eyes widened hugely for an instant, like those of a terrified horse, and then she threw her head back, offering herself up as she grasped hard at the captain's sides.

That they were both desperate was painfully obvious. Brenda's shaking hands fumbled with the fine tooled leather belt encircling Sharon's hips, yanking awkwardly, as Sharon bypassed her mouth and bit at the tendon at the base of the blonde's slender neck. Her teeth abraded, her tongue stroked roughly, and fuck, Brenda was right here and she tasted as good as Sharon remembered – better – her floral perfume barely blanketing the spicy-clean tang of the soap she'd used, and Sharon wanted to devour her. Her tongue tingled and she opened her mouth wide, her teeth sinking into that pale cool flesh as she sucked hard, not giving a damn about politeness, half wanting to mark the deputy chief.

"Sharon," Brenda moaned, and then again, drawing her name out into a protest, a curse, a blessing. "Sharon." The long slender fingers at the taller woman's waist stilled, and then slid to grasp her hips, hanging on for dear life.

Everything inside Sharon swam red and hazy with heat and anger and lust and longing, and she needed to scream. She thrust her hand under Brenda's skirt, rucking it up around her thighs, her fingers diving inside the lacy scrap of the other woman's panties to palm the bare globe of her ass. Her skin was so hot that Sharon gasped, and Brenda took advantage of the moment to wedge one of her thighs between Sharon's and grind forcefully into her.

It wasn't enough, just a taunting reminder that what Sharon's body had been clamoring for during the last ten days was right here in her arms. Sharon's fingers throbbed with frustration and her core clenched tightly, and she knocked Brenda's ineffectual hands away on a swell of impotent fury. She grabbed at the button of her own trousers with clumsy, unnecessary force and heard it hit the floor, then jerked the zipper down and stripped her pants and underwear off together to tangle at her feet. Brenda's palm immediately slid along the curve of Sharon's thigh, insinuating itself between Brenda's own thigh and the juncture of the dark-haired woman's legs, trailing up to cup Sharon possessively. Sharon felt the muscles of her buttocks tremble and tighten responsively, and before her knees could buckle Brenda had spun them around and Sharon felt the cold, smooth wood of her front door pressing against her back.

Her heart pounding so violently that she felt dizzy, Sharon looked down at herself and whimpered in humiliation. Her feet were still tangled in her trousers, her muscles straining against the fabric bonds as she splayed her thighs as widely as she could, her hips giving violent little jerks she was powerless to stop as she moved against Brenda's hand, wordlessly begging those fingers to move, to stroke her, to enter her, to do anything to ease the urgent ache of sensitive nerve endings. Where had this come from, this sudden desperation? The captain felt a pang of self-loathing – where was proud, superior, insolent Captain Raydor? Who was this pathetic woman writhing against a door, all dignity forgotten as she begged her married superior officer to fuck her? – at exactly the same moment that she felt the thick, liquid rush of her arousal coating her where she was already wet, where she'd been wet since the moment she looked out and saw Brenda Leigh's car in her driveway.

Brenda's free arm tightened around her hips, lifting her ass away from the door and bending her backward until she was able to nuzzle into Sharon's breasts without losing that warm, wonderful place between her legs. Unwilling to change positions or take the time to dispense with buttons and layers, she bit at Sharon's nipple through her shirt and bra, and Sharon's own sharp cry filled her ears. A quick tingle of pain was replaced by a long, lingering throb of arousal, and Sharon tugged at Brenda's hair, but the other woman refused to budge. Her mouth moved to Sharon's other breast and she repeated the same treatment, biting and then sucking hard and then biting again, and Sharon realized that Brenda was completely holding her up now, that if she loosened her grip on the captain's waist Sharon would slide down to the floor. That was bad. This whole situation was bad, and she didn't trust Brenda to hold her up, not really, but at least the fingers between her legs had finally begun to move, gently toying with the oh-so-sensitive flesh just outside the entrance to her body.

She was going to come, she realized with perfect, shameful clarity. Just from that touch and the relentless working of her nipple, because she was so ready and so needy and so pathetic, because Brenda could do anything to her, could make her do anything, awful things, things that made her hate herself and attempt to hate Brenda. God damn it, Brenda didn't even have to _try_ to make her come.

"Now," Sharon demanded, her fingernails raking across Brenda's back beneath her sweater, perhaps breaking the delicate skin. "Fuck, _now_."

Brenda stopped what she was doing just long enough to jerk her sweater over her head, yanking it into an impossible shape from which it would never recover, and then her hand was back, two fingers driving into Sharon's body as the other woman rode her palm. She pressed tightly into the cradle of Sharon's hips, leveraging her body against her own hand and driving it between her legs as she rocked into Sharon's body.

"Please," Sharon heard her whimper. "Please, I need –"

Almost vengefully, Sharon shoved the crotch of the blonde's panties out of the way and thrust two fingers into her, all the way in, harder than she'd ever dared to before. Brenda cried out, rough and guttural, and Sharon felt her tense with pain before she began to move, slamming her hips into the other woman's rough strokes. "More," she gasped.

Sharon added a third finger, twisting them, and Brenda rubbed hard at Sharon's clit, her knuckles bumping her own at the same time. Sharon tingled as if she'd been jolted with electricity, hot and cold and unpleasant, and her legs began to tremble uncontrollably. She gasped soundlessly, and Brenda's eyes fastened on hers from inches away as her muscles began to contract painfully around those thin, delicate fingers. Brenda slammed her hips into Sharon's, trapping her had in the hot, wet place between them, and then they were coming together, eyes wide open and staring, breathing harsh. It was too much and Sharon felt totally exposed, wishing she was somewhere else, that Brenda couldn't see her this way, that she wasn't this way.

They sank to the rug in a tangle of weak, trembling limbs, Sharon's pants and underwear still around her feet, her blouse open and her bra yanked down to display her breasts, Brenda in her bra and skirt. Sharon's head bumped the door and her elbow landed on the wooden floor. It was cold.

"Get up," Sharon managed after a moment when she was reasonably confident that her legs would support her. "Let me get up. This is uncomfortable."

Brenda disengaged her body and her clothing from Sharon's and awkwardly scuttled backward, like a crab. Sharon pushed herself into a standing position, grabbing the door handle for support, and it vaguely occurred to her that it would be entirely appropriate if the door flew open under her weight and she fell out onto her porch in this state.

Fortunately the latch was sturdy, even if its owner wasn't. Sharon righted her bra with stiff fingers. The silence between them was growing long and stilted, but what did you say after that?

"May I have a glass of wine?"

Sharon yanked her pants up and followed the younger woman's gaze to the uncorked bottle of cabernet on the coffee table. "Help yourself," she said shortly, fingering the empty space where a button was supposed to be. "I'm going to change."

When she reappeared a few minutes later, thoroughly insulated in jeans, woolen socks, and a UCLA sweatshirt that had somehow migrated to her closet and with her hair yanked back into a messy bun, Brenda was sitting on the sofa in her skirt and bra, chugging wine from Sharon's glass, the one she hadn't actually been using, like it was going out of style.

"Put your sweater on." The older woman scooped the pale blue garment from the floor and threw it in her direction. "You need to go. Where does your family think you are?"

Sharon heard how exhausted her voice sound and wondered briefly how Brenda, the brilliant detective, could remain oblivious to it. _I'm too old for this shit_, the captain thought, riding a newly familiar wave of fatigue and disgust.

Brenda smiled her peculiarly sweet smile. "Here," she said simply. "I told Mama and Daddy you weren't doin' anything today and I wanted to come over and check on you."

Sharon absently rubbed the back of her neck where it had begun to ache. "Well, thank you very much for making your parents think I'm a pathetic, friendless recluse. Your good deed for the day is done, and you can still be home in time for coffee and dessert."

Brenda looked startled and wounded, which made Sharon grit her teeth. She watched as Brenda took in her attire and her defensive posture, and then the blonde softly asked, "Hey, are you okay? Is somethin' wrong?" Holding the sweater, she stood and approached the captain, and Sharon forced herself to tear her eyes away from all that milky white flesh. Brenda's eyes were shadowed with concern.

Sharon felt like breaking things and screaming. _My married lover came over for a fast fuck between the main course and dessert_, she thought waspishly. _What could possibly be wrong?_ Aloud she said, "Please don't come over here without calling first, Brenda."

The younger woman flinched, stung, and tried to appear unaffected. Considering that she based so much of her success at work on reading the secrets people unwittingly divulged in their body language, she was awfully easy to read herself. She tugged the sweater over her head ad fluffed her hair before saying, "All right. It won't happen again."

"It was presumptuous."

"_Okay_, Sharon," Brenda said, folding her arms defensively, and Sharon felt shrewish and petty.

"Okay," she repeated, and reflected that the only time she was more miserable and conflicted than when Brenda was here was when Brenda wasn't here. How like her, then, to send the deputy chief away as quickly as possible. "You can finish your wine."

"It's your wine. You finish it. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?"

"Of course not."

Sharon gulped down the rest of the wine. When Brenda emerged from the bathroom, she found her captain in the hallway, waiting for her. Her posture was rigid, her face expressionless, but Brenda seemed to see something in her eyes, something that made her come nearer and place her hand on Sharon's elbow.

"Was – was I too rough?"

"No." The older woman had been much rougher, but she didn't reciprocate the question. "You'll have bruises," she warned.

Brenda blushed as if the captain had given her an extravagant gift. "It's all right."

Sharon nodded. "Well."

"I guess I'll, um –"

"Yes."

Never had they been so awkward together. Those raw, frantic, desperate moments in Sharon's foyer had stripped away some protective covering, leaving behind scraped skin, awkward angles, and frightening possibilities.

"Happy Thanksgiving."

"Likewise."

They exchanged a crooked half-smile as Brenda let herself out, sharing a joke at their combined expense.

Sharon was loading the dishwasher when her cell phone rang. "Brenda?"

"Um, you got jumper cables, by any chance?"

"_Brenda_."

"All right, I'll call AAA. Think you could give me a ride home, or is it _presumptuous_ of me to ask?"

Sharon didn't have time to be grateful that Fritz's car still wasn't home when she pulled into Brenda's driveway, because Willie Rae immediately came trotting out to the car.

"Oh, Brenda, I'm so glad you brought Sharon back with you for dessert." Willie Rae clasped her hands together and beamed at the dark-haired woman. "Hello, Sharon. It's so nice to see you, dear."

"It's nice to see you as well," Sharon returned in a constrained voice.

"Actually, Mama," Brenda pointed out as she climbed out of Sharon's car, "Sharon brought me back. My car's makin' that click-click-click sound –"

("It's probably the alternator," the captain interrupted sotto voce.)

" – and it won't start. I called AAA, but Sharon gave me a ride back."

"Yes, and now I really should be going," Sharon interjected.

"Nonsense. Dessert is sweet potato pie," the elder Johnson woman added temptingly.

"I don't think Sharon likes sweet potato pie," Brenda piped up, shooting the captain a sympathetic look. "She's a Yankee."

"A westerner," Sharon corrected, and the blonde shot back, "Same thing."

"Now, girls, don't be silly. Everyone likes sweet potato pie, and even if you don't, I guarantee you'll like mine." Willie Rae flashed a saucy smile that often graced her daughter's wide mouth, at least when Sharon was around.

Brenda glanced at her mother before her eyes settled on Sharon's. "Come on, Sharon," she said coaxingly, apparently trying to send the message that resistance was futile. She offered a sweet smile. "One piece of pie."

"And a cup of coffee."

Sharon telegraphed a clear message back to her lover: I will kill you for this.

In response, Brenda's smile widened, and she pulled open the driver's side door. "Now, come on, captain." She leaned down, offering Sharon a very intriguing view down the neck of her sweater. Sharon tossed up a prayer that her mother wouldn't notice. Mrs. Johnson seemed sweeter than her much-touted pie, but Sharon suspected the elderly woman would have some very pertinent questions if she realized her daughter was flashing her tits at her "friend, Captain Sharon."

"Here we go, Sharon. My feelin's are liable to be hurt if you don't try my pie." The frail woman was stronger than she looked; she practically dragged Sharon from the car before the captain had even managed to unfasten her seatbelt.

"I look awful." Sharon tried one last protest, shooting a furious glare at Brenda over Willie Rae's head. "I wasn't planning to go out today."

"Oh, don't worry about that." Willie Rae patted Sharon's hand, and then hooked her own arm though the crook of the brunette's elbow. "You're lovely. I've always liked the natural look best. And I think it's just terrible that your children couldn't be with you today, but they do have their own lives once they get to a certain age, don't they? But, now let's see, you told me two of them go to school here in California, so you must see them often. It's hard when your children are all the way across the country."

Accompanied by the deluge of Willie Rae Johnson's maternal patter, Sharon quickly found herself in what was, she decided right then, the last place on earth she wanted to be: sitting between Brenda and Clay on the deputy chief's living room sofa while Willie Rae occupied the armchair, all four of them balancing plates loaded with generous slabs of pie. Sharon supposed it was good, but hers kept sticking in her throat. Brenda's knee lightly brushed hers and, in very un-Sharon fashion, the captain nearly leapt off the sofa in her haste to avoid further contact. She kept imagining that Clay was shooting particularly loaded looks her way from beneath his thick eyebrows. She knew it was her imagination – or, more accurately, her conscience – but that didn't particularly make her feel better.

"Brenda told us about what's been happenin' to you over the last few months," Mr. Johnson said, momentarily distracted from the football game on TV, and Sharon spilled the scalding coffee she'd been gulping in a vain effort to soothe her suddenly dry throat. As the brown liquid slopped over her clothing and onto the sofa, she stared at Brenda in open-mouthed horror.

Brenda jumped up. "It's just a little spill," she clucked. "Don't worry, Sharon. I'll get a towel."

Sharon felt her eyes grow huge. _Don't you dare leave me alone in here_.

"Oh, my, you didn't burn yourself, did you?" Willie Rae fretted, and when Sharon insisted she was fine, Mrs. Johnson continued, "Yes, Brenda's been tellin' us all about that man who tried to shoot her and your – What's it called? IOS?"

"OIS, Mama," Brenda called from the kitchen, and Sharon began to breathe again. Jesus Christ. Clay's off-hand comment had nearly thrown her into a full-blown panic. The immediate crisis had passed, but Sharon's pulse was still uncomfortably rapid, and she felt light-headed.

She had to get out of there.

"It's a shame that it's takin' so long to get that sorted out, but it's bound to be resolved soon, right?" Willie Rae continued, and Sharon managed a dazed nod. "I know Brenda will be glad when you get back to work. And we like the thought of her havin' you there to back her up – Don't we, Clay?"

"We sure do," he agreed, obviously struggling to divide his attention between the conversation and the game.

"Not that the boys on her team aren't lovely, but there's nothin' like havin' a good girlfriend who really understands you." The silver-haired woman affectionately patted Sharon's knee. "That's why we were so pleased when we got to meet you last Christmas. I just can't tell you what a weight of my mind it is, as a mother, to know Brenda Leigh finally has a real, close friend out here, especially one who knows what that kinda job demands of a woman."

Willie Rae was beaming and still patting Sharon's knee, and the captain was going to vomit. She was suddenly so hot that she was sweating, unpleasant tingles racing up and down her spine and all her limbs, coffee and bile bitter at the back of her throat despite the sweetness of the pie.

"I'm sorry." She lurched to her feet abruptly, gripping the back of the sofa for support. "I'm not feeling very well. I think I need to go."

Willie Rae's murmured concern followed her as she rushed toward the door, but she couldn't stop to reassure her. Sharon knew she was going to throw up, that it was beyond her control, and she didn't want to do it in Brenda and Fritz's living room or in the bushes outside. If she could just make it to her car, just get out of the driveway –

"Sharon?"

Brenda's fingers closed around her arm as she stepped outside, tugging her back around so their eyes met. The blonde's widened with concern when she took in Sharon's drawn mouth and sweaty pallor.

"I have to go," Sharon gasped out, an edge of panic slicing through the words. "I have to – I can't do this."

Brenda's fingers unclutched abruptly and the taller woman stumbled, and then recovered her footing and bolted. Brenda's heart pounded and she clutched the doorframe as he watched the captain fling her car into reverse and back down the driveway. That look in Sharon's eyes – She'd never seen that look before, and it scared the life out of her.

Sharon made it to the next block before she pulled over and vomited Willie Rae's sweet potato pie into the ditch.

2.

"Bren?"

It would occur to her later that it had all happened because of the thick coat of steam blanketing the mirror, turning what it reflected into faint waterlogged blobs of peach and chrome. She stood there brushing her teeth, her wet hair dripping lankly over her shoulders, unable to see anything of her own reflection, seeing instead that desolate, stony look Sharon had worn when she'd said goodbye.

Fritz's voice, the door opening, the thought that the draught of cool air felt good on her overheated skin: that was all that happened for a moment.

Then Brenda became aware that the door was still half open and Fritz was standing there, completely motionless.

And then a blank, no thoughts at all that could be expressed in words, just the sickening void of horrified realization.

"Brenda."

She didn't have to see what Fritz was seeing because she could feel it. The scratch marks scoring her back began to throb with a rising heat; she expected them to glow, to illuminate the entire room like a giant red "A" blazoned across her pale skin.

They left no questions, but if they had, the bruise at the base of her neck – already a dark blob in the mirror as the steam trickled away – would have answered them.

And he couldn't see the accompanying bruises hidden beneath the frayed white towel, one on the inner curve of her right breast, the other adorning the protrusion of her pelvic bone. She had catalogued them in the shower, caressed them, cherished them like the holy relics of an arcane cult.

She stared at the sink, her toothbrush still gripped between her locked teeth. She couldn't turn around.

"Brenda." Fritz's voice was pleading now. "Tell me it's not what it looks like."

She couldn't turn around.

She couldn't tell him what he wanted to hear either. Oh, he wouldn't believe her; but somehow she thought he might accept it nonetheless. He was giving her a choice, wasn't he?

No, she couldn't form the words.

She couldn't form any words.

She couldn't do anything but stare at the moisture clinging to the basin of the sink, at a smear of toothpaste near the drain.

His voice shook with a strain she'd never heard before. "Put some clothes on."

The door banged and bounced open instead of catching, and then she heard the bedroom door close. Not slam; no. Just close quietly and firmly. Brenda would've slammed the door.

Brenda Leigh had never dared imagine how she might feel during these awful moments if ever they came; even contemplating the eventuality would seem to invite it, to tempt fate. The reality was that she felt nothing but numb.

It would be worse later, she thought dimly, when she absorbed that this had really happened to her, she had made it happen, and this was her life now. There was no way to go back. From here on out her life would be divided into before Fritz found out she was having an affair and after Fritz found out she was having an affair.

Brenda mechanically changed into the sleep pants and tank top that awaited her folded neatly on the closed lid of the toilet. She used the towel to squeeze the excess water from her hair. She lingered, staring at her reflection, at the enormous eyes swimming in her frighteningly pale face.

When she finally forced herself out into the cooler air of their bedroom, she still had no idea what to say to her husband.

One look at his face told her that was because there was nothing to say.

And that was when it hit her, not like a kick or a slap or a knife wound or a bullet; not like anything other than what it was: the dissolution of a marriage. Her marriage.

"Tell me one thing," Fritz said hollowly, fixing her with an expression that was no expression at all. "No, two things. How long?"

She stared, feeling utterly incapable of speech.

"How long have you been sneaking around and fucking someone else?" he elaborated, his tone entirely even, lacking any sort of modulation.

The words tumbled out, useless and senseless and pathetic, and with them the tears sparked by their futility. "I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. I never meant for anything like this – I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Fritzi."

He stared at her.

He blinked.

He waited.

Brenda sighed, swiped at the tears that kept falling, and shoved a hand through her wet, tangled hair. "Just a few weeks."

"It started while I was in Fresno."

"Yes. No. I – We kissed."

"That night – when you got out of bed and left –"

"Yeah." Her voice was cringingly small as she told him what he already knew, what he must have known all along.

He nodded, his jaw tight. He wore exactly the same all-business look he turned on a particularly distasteful perp. "Who?"

At first she only stared. He already knew. Did he just need to hear her say the words?

"Who is he?" he demanded, his voice dropping rather than rising with the intensity of what he labored to contain. "Where have you been all the times you told me you were with Raydor?"

Oh.

"With – with Sharon," she stammered.

It took him longer than it should have, for he was a keenly intelligent man, an FBI agent. Horrified fascination kept Brenda's gaze riveted to his face, observing each nuance of the thoughts reflected there. We wasn't an FBI agent now, though, just a man, a husband. Initially he was bewildered. She watched him try to puzzle out the chain of events that would have led to someone he'd described as her 'nemesis' becoming her co-conspirator in hiding an affair.

There it was. Slowly, sluggishly, realization dawned. "Sharon Raydor," he managed, the pause between her two names lengthy. "You – and Captain Sharon Raydor. The wicked witch. The bitch from FID. Someone you despise."

A woman, he didn't have to say.

His eyes were wide and shell-shocked, a thick rim of white showing around the irises, like a child woken from a nightmare, except he'd woken to a nightmare.

He decided not to believe her.

"No, Brenda."

He stared. She stared.

"Come on, Brenda. Not Raydor." His voice was lighter now, almost coaxing, as if this was some terribly unamusing joke.

She stared.

"Did she – Tell me. Did she coerce you somehow?"

He'd stepped closer, reaching for her, and she instinctively stepped back. She could see that he already knew the question was a ridiculous one born of a diseased line of wishful thinking, and a quick burn of anger raced through her at the idea that he could think that of Sharon.

Brenda was breaking his heart, breaking both their hearts, and the first feeling to penetrate the numbness that had enveloped her was anger that her husband had slighted her lover?

She sat down heavily on the bed because her knees refused to support her.

He turned away abruptly, stalked over to the closet, and began pulling out work shirts seemingly at random. Brenda watched as he flung them onto the bed, as pants and socks and underwear joined the pile, each item making her flinch like a slap.

"I'll go to a hotel until your parents leave," he said, avoiding her eyes. "Then we'll decide what to do about the house."

"The house?" she repeated dully. "What about _us_?"

She was fixated on the way his shirt shifted over the rigid planes of his familiar back; she remembered slipping into the kitchen after her weekend in Santa Cruz and watching him the same way as he moved over the stove with relentless efficiency. She waited. This couldn't be it. There had to be more to this, to them, to their shared jokes and shared mortgage and joint cat custody and the dozens of fortune-cookie fortunes magnetized to the refrigerator door and the perfect symmetry of the way she picked the chocolate chips out of the ice cream and left the vanilla behind for him, than this.

"That's it?" she asked at last.

He looked fleetingly at her, the strap of his duffle bag clutched in one hand. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."

"You're growing to throw us away –" And she knew she was mercilessly, weakly shifting the blame – "because I made a mistake?"

Fritz stared at the carpet, rubbed his forehead, before lifting his shattered gaze to hers. "It's pretty goddamn obvious that this is what you want," he said softly, his voice deadened by exhaustion. "You wanted me to see the scratches, the bruise –"

She stiffened, taken aback by this. He was wrong. She'd never wanted this, never wanted him to see how Sharon had marked her, possessed her.

Had she?

The feeling of Sharon's mouth attached to her neck flooded through her, and Brenda relived the way she'd tangled the other woman's smooth hair between her fingers, not to push her away but to encourage her, to yank her closer. She remembered the fascinated way she'd had to look to see if her lover had broken the skin; she remembered how the sharp pain of those manicured nails raking over her vulnerable back had made her entire body instantly implode.

_Oh, God._

Fritz's lips pressed together in a grim line. "You could've just told me," he said. "You could've at least done that."

And then he left, soundlessly closing the bedroom door behind him.

3.

By the time her doorbell chimed at 6:00 Monday evening, Sharon's stomach was tied in knots, roiling with a queasy tension worse than what she'd felt on her first day of high school, worse than she'd felt when she told her parents she had no intention of practicing law, worse than she'd felt, even, when facing the total ostracism of her peers when she'd conducted her first I.A. investigation. This case of pterodactyl-sized butterflies had been growing since she'd sat on Brenda's living room sofa, smiling and putting away bites of pie; and by Monday morning they'd emerged fully-formed from their chrysalis.

All day she'd told herself to pick up the phone, to call Brenda Leigh and tell her not to come here tonight. All day she'd made excuses. As clearly as she knew she had to end this affair, she also understood that she couldn't resist seeing the blonde deputy chief this one final time.

When Sharon Raydor made her mind up, she could be counted on to adhere to her resolve. But the dizzy desire she felt for the younger woman defied logic, reason, and all her past experiences. So when Sharon went to the door in old, frayed jeans, sneakers, and an LAPD sweatshirt, with no makeup and her hair tangled, it was her equivalent to donning armor in order to go into battle. Brenda understood that immediately, although she wasn't certain what it meant – or maybe she just didn't want to admit she knew. As soon as she saw the captain, whatever words she might've spoken petrified on her tongue, and she stood there like a statue.

"Brenda," Sharon said in a suppressed version of her Captain Raydor voice, stepping aside.

"Sharon?"

There was no sense prolonging this. Sharon met the younger woman's eyes steadily, never one to shrink from unpleasant encounters. "I'm ashamed," she began quietly, steadily. "For the first time in my life, I'm deeply ashamed of myself." She held up her hand, and Brenda closed her mouth on the verge of interrupting. "I'm not blaming you. I made my choices, and I knew what I was getting into. But I can't do this anymore."

"I'm not askin' you to." Her tone had those intense green eyes snapping to her brown ones. "He knows, Sharon. Fritz knows all about us."

The captain caught her breath, the blood leeching from her face. "You told him?" she asked breathlessly, bewildered.

"He knows," Brenda repeated.

Sharon looked down and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well," she said quietly, her voice suffused with some emotion the other woman was afraid to try to identify, "then I guess you'd better come inside."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: Matters Domestic**

1.

Sharon had left Brenda sitting in the living room, returning a moment later with two glasses and an open bottle of wine. The blonde had been sitting motionless on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. "Thank you," she'd said politely when the other woman had poured. "I don't guess we're toastin', huh?"

Sharon had appeared to ignore her as she sat at the other end of the sofa, a wide cushion between them, and took a healthy swallow from her own glass. "I don't understand," she'd said after a moment, looking and sounding very much like the FID captain, immersed in putting the pieces together, poking and prodding the story she'd been told until the holes revealed themselves. "Why did you tell him? Why would you do that without talking to me first?"

Brenda's ashen face was her response. After a moment the older woman spoke again. "Oh," she said. "Oh, I see." She sipped her wine slowly, methodically. "You didn't tell him. He found out."

"I had – He saw –" The blonde gestured vaguely toward her back.

"Oh," Sharon said again, and went back to contemplating her wine. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know. I guess I don't feel much of anything," Brenda admitted, and took a gulp of her wine for good measure.

The captain nodded. They sat there for a very long time, drinking their wine with the silence thick in the room between them. A part of Brenda had hoped – had believed – this development would make things between her and Sharon simpler, more definite. She already saw that they were only more complicated.

"Why did you come over here?"

It occurred to Brenda that it was unusual for her to be in the position of the person answering all the questions. "It – it's Monday. I didn't know what else to do."

Sharon finished her wine and poured herself another glass. She held the bottle out to Brenda, but the other woman shook her head. She already felt dazed enough.

The chief wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting there when Sharon braced her hands on her knees and stood fluidly. "I think the best thing to do now is to go to bed."

Brenda looked up. At this point she was more or less willing to comply with whatever the captain suggested as long as Sharon made the decisions, but she was vaguely aware that she was surprised. The older woman had been quiet, tense, and contemplative since she'd made her speech when Brenda had walked through the door. It hardly seemed likely, under the circumstances, that she'd been sitting there imagining all sorts of wild, filthy, sexy things they could do to one another.

The blonde followed her from the room and up the stairs, her brain sluggishly clicking back to life as she realized she was being led to the cozy, butter-yellow guestroom where she'd spent a memorable night preceding an even more memorable weekend. That seemed like so long ago now, when in reality it had been, what, two months? Her whole life had changed since then. Everything had changed.

Everything except Sharon. And tonight it seemed that maybe Sharon, too, had changed. Brenda felt a spasm of fear mingled with yearning and reached out, laying her hand on the taller woman's shoulder. "Sharon?"

She turned back, lightly touching the hand that rested on her shoulder. Her expression was pensive, her eyes quietly melancholy.

"There are clothes in the dresser," she said. "You'll be able to find something to sleep in. I'll just be downstairs."

"Sharon," Brenda repeated, feeling her eyes dampen.

"Just sleep, Brenda Leigh. Things will look clearer in the morning, hmm? I'm right here if you need anything."

I think I just need you, the blonde thought, but she nodded and forced a weary smile. She didn't know what Sharon was thinking; she didn't know how to ask for what she needed; and even if she'd somehow found the words, she wasn't sure Sharon in this mood would give it to her.

She found sweatpants and a t-shirt (USC Spring Fun Run 2004), washed her face, and used the brand-new toothbrush she found in the bathroom medicine cabinet to brush her teeth. She kept thinking about the last time, about how glad she'd been to be there, how safe and pleasantly drowsy; how her senses had tingled at Sharon's nearness, and how her breath had caught at the feeling of those fingers stroking her cheek.

She knew Sharon wasn't coming back to tuck her in tonight. That other night, she'd felt so close to the other woman in this room; now she felt a world of distance between them. She turned off the light, lay back, and closed her eyes, listening intently for any sound of Sharon moving around downstairs, just so she could picture what the captain was doing.

They'd become lovers since then. She had learned the lovely contours of that slim body, tasted Sharon's sweat, learned to crave the twist of those elegant fingers inside her body. And yet tonight Sharon was downstairs, washing her own face, brushing her own teeth, and climbing into her own bed – alone. And Brenda was up here, alone.

Her arms felt empty in a way they hadn't during the last four nights she'd slept alone in her marital bed. She ached to hold Sharon to her and feel the warm weight of her and the reassuring rise and fall of her breathing.

She hugged the pillow to her chest instead, rolled onto her side, and waited for sleep to claim her.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she thought it was a lot, hours, when she heard the sound.

"Sharon?"

The time-worn floorboards had creaked under Sharon's weight. The sound wasn't loud enough to wake the lightest sleeper, but, the older woman realized immediately, Brenda Leigh wasn't sleeping either.

She froze for a few seconds at the tentative question, which was ridiculous, and then stepped into the bedroom, stopping just over the threshold. "I just came to check on you," she said awkwardly. "I thought you'd be asleep."

"I thought you'd be asleep. Why aren't you?"

Sharon chuckled harshly. "Oh, pick your reason."

"Yeah." By the clear, cold light of the moon she could see that Brenda was sitting up, picking at her cuticles. "I haven't been sleepin' much lately."

"Neither have I," Sharon admitted softly, turning to look out the window.

The chief was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke her words caught Sharon off guard. "Is it my fault?"

The other woman continued looking out the window, even though she wasn't really seeing anything. Earlier, even earlier this evening, she would've answered with an unequivocal 'yes.' But that was only, at most, half the truth. Sharon Raydor's professional integrity and entire philosophy of life rested upon the belief that, ultimately, everyone is responsible for his or her own actions. She couldn't abdicate that responsibility now just because she'd done something she found morally reprehensible. The devil hadn't made her do it. Brenda hadn't made her do it.

"Oh, Brenda," she finally said, sounding tired and wistful.

"Have I ruined it?"

Brenda sounded lost, and Sharon looked over sharply. "Your marriage?"

The blonde winced, but forbore comment on that minefield. "Us."

Sharon considered for a long moment, and then compressed her lips and shook her head, too wary to share her thoughts. "That's a question I can't answer," she replied truthfully. "I'm not sure what we are, Brenda."

Brenda's mouth tightened. "I see." It was her turn to look away. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here."

Sharon's blood ran cold and she didn't attempt to speak.

"I should've gone to a hotel," Brenda continued, tossing the covers back in preparation for getting out of the bed. "I just couldn't stand to be in my house, but I'm intrudin'."

Sharon stepped forward as Brenda stood, searching in the dark for her slippers. "Don't be ridiculous," the captain said fretfully, watching. "It's the middle of the night. Just go to sleep."

Brenda's dark eyes met her lighter ones. "You don't want me here," she said flatly.

Sharon felt her lungs expand again as she dragged in a hitching mouthful of air. "It's all right," she managed.

"No." Brenda shook her head doggedly. "It was presumptuous."

The captain forced herself to take a deep, cleansing breath. Inhale, exhale. "It's not that I don't want you here." I don't want to want you here, she thought. Because you won't stay. You'll go back to your husband once you realize what you've done, and then where will I be?

She'd be alone, as she'd been before that first night Brenda Leigh had walked into her office and insisted they go for drinks. The all-important difference was that this time she'd also be lonely.

She heard what sounded an awful lot like a sniffle. "Then why am I up here, and you're down there?" the blonde questioned, vaguely gesturing to indicate the ground floor.

"It –" Sharon cleared her throat and began again. "It seemed safer."

Brenda licked her lips, which were already growing chapped. She felt like a child who'd awakened from a bad dream and guiltily, desperately begged to crawl into her parents' bed. But no, she wouldn't ask; not quite that. "Will you stay with me? I can't sleep."

Sharon cocked her head, considering. Brenda watched her shyly, filled with hope, and turned the covers back on the other side of the bed. She forced herself not to say please.

After a moment the captain walked around the bed and gracefully slid under the covers. The mattress shifted and dipped slightly, and although they weren't touching, Brenda immediately sensed her warmth.

The other woman sighed very softly. "Maybe," she whispered, "we'll both sleep better now."

2.

The next morning when Brenda woke, the two of them had been laced together, facing each other like lovers in a painting, with her arm slung over Sharon's hips. She'd felt warm and comfortable and right for the first time in days, and hadn't bothered trying to resist the urge to scoot over and kiss Sharon awake, suckling at the skin of her neck and her earlobe before reaching her mouth.

Green eyes had opened and Brenda's very own Sleeping Beauty had smiled and kissed her back, sweetly, but then she had pulled away. "I'm going for a run," she'd announced, despite the fact that it was very early, barely light outside. "And you need to get ready for work. Did you bring clothes?"

She had – at least a week's worth, in fact, out in the car in her suitcase, but she didn't mention that just yet. She'd called out to Sharon, though, arresting the other woman's progress at the top of the stairs. "Can – Can I come back tonight? After work?"

There had been a pause, and Sharon sounded subdued when she answered: "Okay. I'll see you this evening."

They'd settled into a routine after that. Brenda worked late, wary of being an intrusive presence in Sharon's life and her home; and when she got back she tiptoed into the living room, where she'd find Sharon reading or watching television. They didn't talk much, but Brenda snuggled against the other woman's side, often resting her head on Sharon's shoulder, trying to speak through the closeness of their bodies. Brenda went to bed first, still up in the yellow guestroom; and hours later Sharon joined her, sliding under the covers and lying beside her as chastely as two sisters.

Sometimes, in the mornings, and still wordlessly, they kissed. Just kissed. In the morning light Sharon's green eyes were filled with muted affection and a kind of longing that twisted at Brenda's heart, but if the blonde tried to deepen their kisses or touch Sharon through the smooth silk of her pajamas, she immediately pulled away.

Brenda was frustrated and frightened and confused.

And yet, in a way, she was happy, just being with Sharon, and she thought Sharon was happy too. Perhaps it was best not to discuss it or question it, but to let this new, fragile thing grow between them until it could stand on its own.

On Friday she caught Sharon in the kitchen. The brunette was dressed to run, and Brenda came stumbling quickly down the stairs in another fetching t-shirt and sweatpants combo, because for some reason she liked sleeping in these clothes that belonged in this house, as if somehow that would make her belong too. "I'll be home earlier tonight," she said, her excitement alloyed with shyness. "If that's okay with you. I don't wanna intrude."

The taller woman smiled slightly as she considered Brenda's sheep-disheveled form. "It's okay," she said quietly. "I'll make us something for dinner."

Brenda's smile widened, feeling certain that this was good, this was positive. They could spend the whole evening together. They could talk again. If she was really lucky, she might make it to second base. She laughed giddily, and Sharon didn't ask why; she just grinned in return.

The deputy chief was packing up to head home when Fritz appeared in the doorway of her private office. "We need to talk."

She froze in the act of stuffing a file folder into her bag. She could hardly argue; they did need to talk. It had to happen eventually, and she needed to be able to move forward. She needed to be able to show Sharon exactly how she wanted to move forward, and with whom; she needed to get things between them back on solid footing.

And in the process she needed to end her marriage. Her stomach clenched. "Okay," she said quietly.

"Do you wanna grab a bite to eat?"

"Uh –" She fumbled for her glasses and fitted them into their case. "I have plans."

Fritz's features immediately morphed into a stern mask that suggested he didn't need to ask with whom she had plans. "You don't think this is a little more important?"

"I'm perfectly willin' to talk. I just can't have dinner," she replied defensively, standing up straight and shouldering her bag.

"Fine." Fritz ran his fingers through his hair before crossing his arms. "Come to the house."

"No," she returned instantly, feeling that that would give him an unfair advantage. "We can go somewhere and have a –" Drink, she'd started to say. "Coffee," she finished.

"You want to have this discussion in public, Brenda Leigh?"

I don't want to have this conversation at all, she thought. "You were the one who suggested dinner. If that's what you wanna do, I'll meet you one night next week after work. Just call me."

With that, Brenda strode briskly past him. Sharon would be waiting for her.

She was distracted enough that she didn't notice his car in her rearview mirror until she was a few blocks from Sharon's house. She huffed out a sigh, schooled herself to remain calm, and kept driving. When she pulled into the driveway beside Sharon's car, she waited for her husband to pull in behind her, and then walked back to his car.

"I want to talk now," he said flatly through the open window, his teeth clenched.

"Let me – Let me go ask Sharon. This is her home."

"I'm not going in the house. This is between you and me; it has nothing to do with that woman."

It had everything to do with that woman, and what she had taught Brenda about her own heart, but Brenda had no intention of letting Sharon be dragged into the middle of a shouting match. "And I'm not doing this in the driveway. If you insist on doin' this now, we can talk on the patio, if it's okay with Sharon."

Brenda thought Sharon looked even more beautiful than usual in a dark green silk blouse and chocolate-colored corduroy skirt, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of whatever she was leaning over on the stovetop. She turned and smiled warmly at the smaller blonde, and Brenda was fairly certain she literally felt her heart skip a beat.

"I was sure you'd be late."

"You need to have more faith in me." Brenda lightly rubbed Sharon's back between her shoulder blades. She wanted to kiss her, but it felt wrong with her husband just outside – too much, too blatant, disrespectful to both of them. "Fritz is here."

Sharon froze. Her expressionless face was the one Brenda had long ago learned to associate with Captain Raydor.

"He wants to talk. Do you think we could use the patio?"

Sharon cleared her throat. "Fine," she said brusquely, tapping the wooden spoon she held on the edge of a pot containing what looked like a simmering marinara sauce before replacing the lid. "Go ahead."

Brenda knew she should say something, but she had no idea what. "I'll be back soon," she finally said weakly, and the other woman just nodded.

The blonde walked to the front door and signaled to Fritz, gesturing toward the side of the house; then she let herself out onto the patio. After only a moment she heard Fritz's footsteps crunching through the underbrush.

"Hey, careful. Sharon doesn't like it when you mess with the plants."

As he cleared the last barrier, that prickly pear, Fritz looked at Brenda with an incredulous expression. "Oh, well, we wouldn't want that," he mocked, his voice steely. "I wouldn't want to injure Sharon's plants."

Brenda just gazed at him, feeling foolish and exposed and resentful that he was intruding on this sanctuary, his size tens crushing delicate leafy tendrils, a cocktail of emotions complicated by the thought that she had no right to resent anything he chose to do now.

"You wanted to talk?" she asked after an uncomfortable pause.

Her husband shoved his hands into his pockets. "I want you to come home."

Home: the house with its soothingly painted walls and squishy sofa and dish of cat food in the kitchen floor. Was it? "You're the one who walked out," she pointed out.

"Yeah, because you've been having an affair. Do you really want to play the blame game?"

She doggedly shook her head, ponytail swinging. "You're obviously still very angry," she said, sidestepping the issue. "How is my comin' home going to fix that?"

"So my anger is the problem?" he demanded incredulously.

Brenda sighed. "That's not what I said. But why do you even want me there?"

"Why? Because you're my wife." Fritz stepped toward her and reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but then let his hand fall. "This whole thing is crazy, Brenda Leigh. I love you."

Sudden, unexpected tears pricked at her eyes, because this was what made this whole awful process the hardest. "I love you too," she admitted, wishing that it were enough, that it could somehow keep her from hurting him.

Fritz's face lit with cautious hope. "So come home with me. I'm not saying it'll be perfect. Whatever you take me for, you know I'm not stupid. We've been growing apart for months, since the start of the first lawsuit. I didn't want to confront that. But we have a life together. We'll go to counseling –"

Brenda was shaking her head again. "No," she said quietly. "I can't."

"What's the plan, then? You can't hide out here forever, shacked up with Raydor. You don't even like her."

I love her.

The instinctual answer came so quickly to Brenda's mind that it stunned her, knocking her off balance, and she groped fuzzily for words. "I do," she protested weakly. "I do… like her. I just misjudged her at first. Once you get to know her, she's… not so bad."

Not so bad? That was so pathetic that Brenda barely kept from guffawing. The last thing she wanted to do was to discuss he merits of her lover with her husband. "Besides, I'm not hiding," she insisted.

"No?" he retorted skeptically, and then made an effort to gentle his voice. "Honey, you've been under so much pressure at work, and maybe I haven't been as understanding as I could've been. You needed an outlet. I get that; I'm an alcoholic, remember? So I know firsthand how destructive this behavior is. This, Brenda – throwing our marriage away, jumping into bed with someone else – is not the answer."

Brenda scowled, hating what she interpreted as his patronizing if well-meant reasoning. "You think I want to be with Sharon because I'm stressed at work? Because I'm having some kind of – of midlife crisis?"

He heaved a sigh. He looked exhausted, and Brenda felt a surging wave of regret and compassion. Next to him she knew she looked well-rested, well-fed, calm. Or at least she'd been calm until a few minutes ago.

Fritz folded his arms and looked past Brenda into Sharon's cozy living room. More than anything Brenda wanted to run inside, pour herself a large glass of Sharon's cabernet, and cuddle on Sharon's couch with Sharon's favorite blanket, preferably with Sharon right beside her, reading The New Yorker and sipping bourbon while she pretended not to be interested in whatever police procedural Brenda Leigh was watching on TV.

"What I'm saying," he replied steadily, "is that six months or a year from now, you're going to wake up and bitterly regret this. Fucking someone for a few weeks isn't the foundation of a lasting relationship. What we have is a relationship that can last, if you make that choice." This time he did touch her, his hands resting on her shoulders, and the feeling was so familiar that she wanted to cry. "Come home, Bren."

"I can't," she repeated, her voice straining, unable to explain that he was asking her to return to something that didn't exist anymore. "I need to be here."

He stepped back, defeated but unwilling to concede. "You'll get bored," he warned. "And when you do – well, the door's open. But don't leave it too long."

He left the way he had come, crunching through dry leaves, and Brenda blinked through a mist of tears. That had been unpleasant but, she reasoned, it could have gone worse. Poor Fritz. He was so earnest, so well-intentioned. It would've been impossible to tell him the full, complete truth; not only would it have been unnecessarily cruel, but Brenda Leigh was only just coming to grips with it herself, watching it shimmer and waver with the moisture of her unshed tears and the gentle swaying of the evergreens fringing Sharon's property. She could hardly say to Fritz that she loved him but she was in love with Sharon when she hadn't said it to Sharon yet, and was only saying it to herself now.

She gazed through the glass doors into the warm living room, taking in the bright tile, the jute rug, the antique brass lamp, and tried the words out on her tongue, silently shaping them. I'm in love with Sharon. I love Sharon. I love you, Sharon.

Well, no, not just yet. That could wait. It would scare the captain to death. In a rare moment of total honesty, Brenda admitted that it was pretty near scaring her to death, too.

The house was silent. The smell of something savory in the oven permeated the air.

"Sharon," Brenda called. "Sharon?"

She melted out of her bedroom, still in her green silk blouse and chocolate corduroy skirt, but her feet were bare, a fresh coat of dark red polish adorning her toenails. "I heard most of that," she said briskly, lifting one hand to adjust her glasses. "I didn't intend to listen, but –"

Brenda managed a little smile. "But we were havin' our heart-to-heart under your bedroom window? It's okay. I don't mind." She shrugged, embarrassed. "I'm kinda glad you did hear, actually."

She looked expectantly at her captain. She hadn't declared her feelings, but she'd told Fritz she wanted, needed, to be with Sharon, that she wasn't going to return to their home and her old life. She waited, breathless, for the older woman to return the gesture, to say that she wanted to be with Brenda too, or at least that she was glad the deputy chief was there with her.

Instead, Sharon's carefully neutral expression became pinched. "The lasagna will be ready soon," she said. "I'm going to make a salad to go with it."

Something pricked sharply at Brenda, but she only smoothed her sweater over her hips and said, "It smells great. Can I help?"

"I've got it." Sharon turned her back, busying herself washing lettuce. "But you can open a bottle of wine, if you don't mind. Maybe a merlot?"

Dinner was delicious, but it was hard for Brenda to enjoy it. Sharon was right there next to her, but she seemed further away than ever, and Brenda didn't know why or how to fix it.

When they'd both finished, Sharon rose and began to clear the table, and Brenda hopped up, laying a hand on her arm to stop her. "No, no," she fussed. "You cooked; the least I can do is clean up."

She tried to concentrate on the simple task at hand, washing forks and knives and plates in the hot, soapy water, so hot that it almost scalded her hands; but she could think only of her dark-haired lover, the distant expression on her face, the unreadable look in her beautiful eyes.

And then suddenly Sharon was there, at her back as Brenda scrubbed the baking dish, not touching but close enough that the chief could feel her breath on her neck. Sharon's hands settled at her hips and squeezed.

"Kiss me," that husky alto requested with an edge of desperation.

Brenda was only too happy to comply and turned quickly, catching a startling gleam of vulnerability in those lovely green eyes. Her lips covered Sharon's gently but with urgency, wanting to feel her, connect with her, reassure her. The chief awkwardly braced her wet, soapy hands on the edge of the sink behind her, carefully avoiding contact with her lover's silk blouse – Sharon was meticulous about her clothes, as she was with most things, and nothing would ruin the mood faster than marring an item of apparel that probably cost more than Brenda's entire outfit – but Sharon reached around her, grabbing Brenda's hands and bringing them to her own waist.

"Sharon –"

"It doesn't matter," the captain returned quickly, tucking a curl behind Brenda's ear and recapturing her mouth. Brenda felt the fine fabric mold to the contours of Sharon's sides beneath her hands as Sharon's tongue slipped into her mouth, exploring, probing, and relief coursed through her own body along with easily awakened arousal. She returned the kiss eagerly, pressing tightly against the taller woman from shoulder to knee, her own tongue sliding along Sharon's and sampling the smooth, sharp edges of her teeth. One hand lifted to stroke that dark, wonderful hair, and as if of their own volition her fingers formed a fist, pulling Sharon even closer until the edge of the sink dug into her spine and she didn't care. There was an answering hunger, a dark, tantalizing need, in the way the captain angled her head to kiss Brenda more deeply as her hands roved over the younger woman's hips and thighs, and Brenda felt like weeping for joy. Here she was. This was her Sharon, vibrant and real and flashing through her like quicksilver. Brenda had missed this so much, had felt so off balance and out of sorts without this connection between them, as if she were a compass that had lost true north.

She found the sensitive spot below Sharon's ear, kissing and biting gently, and Sharon hummed and tilted her head to the side to grant Brenda freer access. The low sound vibrated against Brenda's lips. Brenda shifted restlessly, fighting the desire to shove the other woman's skirt up and out of the way and grind her aching center against her strong, smooth thigh. She wanted Sharon so much that her head swam with it and she panted into the crook of her captain's neck. Oh God oh God please, her brain stuttered, thinking words she was too proud to speak, and she felt Sharon's nipples pebble as her moist breath bathed the other woman's throat. She reached up unthinkingly to touch, her palm cupping one full breast and her fingers squeezing; and then Sharon's hands were on the backs of her thighs, beneath the loose fabric of her skirt, just below the swell of her ass. Brenda's hands had been the ones in the mercilessly hot water, but Sharon's touch on her skin was so hot that she gasped.

Brenda Leigh was no sheltered, vestal virgin; she'd had her fair share of sexual partners and a respectable percentage of good sex. She'd certainly never thought of herself as repressed or naïve. But never before being with Sharon Raydor had she experienced this rush of desire so pure that it seemed to pierce her like arrows rising from the very core of her being to break through her skin. She gasped again, squeezing her eyes shut against sudden scalding tears.

"I want you," she said in a soft, clear voice, because Sharon made her want to be franker than she'd ever been with any other lover, to admit exactly what she desired. "I want you so much."

The dark-haired woman didn't answer in words. She took a step back and Brenda Leigh immediately felt a chill, but then Sharon caught her hand, entwining their fingers and walking backwards into the living room, drawing Brenda with her to the sofa. Her green eyes glowed with a smoldering heat, and Brenda thought it made her look fascinatingly feline, almost feral. She lightly pushed the blonde down into a sitting position, a playful twinkle in her expression that was shockingly at odds with the tight, strained set of her jaw.

Brenda's breath caught as she looked at her lover standing barefoot before her, her hair lightly tousled from Brenda's fingers, her lips parted and glistening, her chest heaving. She was magnificent.

She smiled, just the smallest, barest hint of a smile, and the blonde was sure she felt her overburdened heart shatter.

Sharon stepped forward, bracing one knee on the cushion beside Brenda and slowly lowering herself until she rested on the other woman's lap, her other foot still supporting much of her weight. She watched Brenda's eyes light up with surprise as she registered how much she enjoyed this, the novelty of having Sharon sit in her lap; and then she urged Sharon closer, taking all of her weight where their bodies met. Sharon allowed herself a sigh and a roll of her hips, and Brenda looked up to find the other woman smirking down mischievously at her.

"Oh, that's – oh, too many clothes." Brenda's hands traveled up Sharon's thighs, shoving the skirt out of the way as she'd wanted to do moments earlier, her fingernails lightly scratching the captain's inner thigh. She felt the trembling tension of the well-defined muscles and grinned. It made her bolder. She slipped her hand between their bodies and cupped her lover's sex through her lacy little panties – panties that were, as Brenda could clearly see with Sharon lewdly sprawled across her lap, black. They were also hot and damp with Sharon's arousal, and as Brenda lightly dragged four fingers over the fabric, she looked up and watched green eyes grow hooded. A fierce bolt of arousal ricocheted through her own body and lodged, urgent and throbbing, between her legs.

"You're so wet," she marveled, sounding awed, and watched a flush creep over Sharon's cheeks. Her thumb dipped below the edge of the black lace and brushed over crisp, springy curls. "You've been thinkin' about this."

Realizing that she was waiting for an answer, Sharon nodded, and Brenda licked her lips.

Brenda had never been much of a talker during sex, and what she said now was less to seduce Sharon than it was due to Brenda's desire for her to know these things. "Me too," she admitted, her fingers executing one more gentle caress before she curled them into a fist and extended a single finger to trace the same route, pressing more firmly. "All the time. Sleepin' by you, feelin' you –" Her fingernail scratched lightly over Sharon's clit and her hips jerked. Brenda felt her clit pulse in response. "I want to make love to you. I want to make you feel so good."

Sharon hummed, a low, throaty moan, and tipped her head back. The chief took that as consent and her hands immediately flew to the button of Sharon's skirt.

While Sharon stood long enough to shimmy out of her skirt and panties, Brenda hastily disposed of her own skirt and top, and then pulled Sharon back onto her lap. They both groaned as the older woman's wet, open sex settled low against Brenda's abdomen, and Brenda felt arousal coil tighter and tighter as Sharon shifted helplessly, unable to keep from seeking some measure of friction.

Abruptly the captain ducked her head and kissed Brenda furiously, both hands rising to knead the pale flesh of the blonde's breasts and tweak the prominent peach nipples.

When Brenda realized she'd closed her eyes, she opened them. Sharon's dark green silk blouse was unbuttoned, revealing the black bra that lovingly molded to her curves. "You are so beautiful," Brenda whispered, leaning in to kiss the other woman's breastbone. "I love your breasts, do you know that?" She reached around the captain' back beneath the fabric of her blouse, feeling for the hooks, and Sharon smirked and reached up with one hand, springing the front clasp with a flick of her thumb. The cups sprang aside.

"Oh." Brenda blinked, and then grinned. "Well, that's convenient."

"I hoped it would be."

The dark, jewel-toned fabric hung down Sharon's torso, framing her breasts to startlingly vivid effect, the garment emphasizing rather than lessening Brenda's awareness of the nearly nude state of her body. It was, the blonde thought, like the perfect frame for a beautiful painting, and it gave her an idea. She reached out, letting her knuckles trace gently down Sharon's chest to the soft swell of her abdomen, and the captain tilted her head, speculatively watching Brenda watch her.

Brenda bit her lip. "Hey, Sharon? This blouse is already ruined, right? And you're not gonna be mad at me later?"

Sharon just smirked and cocked her chin, and in response the other woman curved her palm around the back of the captain's neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair and urged her mouth down for a long, languid kiss. Her smugness, her arrogance, her cutting intelligence, the childlike delight in her laughter and the pensive melancholy that shadowed her eyes and tightened her mouth when she thought Brenda wasn't looking: the younger woman loved all these things about her. She tried to pour those feelings into her kiss, into the brush of her fingertips over Sharon's cheekbone, the tracing of one taut nipple through the thin, silky fabric. I love you, I love you. She repeated it to herself, trying it out. She thought maybe she liked the sound of it.

Brenda's palm pressed flat against Sharon's spine, urging her to bow her back and thrust her breasts forward. When the brunette complied, Brenda's mouth closed around one nipple through the delicate fabric of her blouse, just holding it there, feeling the material mold to the opulent curves. It felt decadent, sensual, the expensive blouse sealing itself to Sharon's flesh like a second skin. The texture against Brenda's tongue felt exotic, and Sharon approved, if the way her nipple tightened imperatively could be taken as a guide. Brenda smiled and scraped her teeth over the silk, and Sharon's fingers wove through the curls that had spilled out of the clip holding them back, urging more of her breast into the wet heat of Brenda's mouth. After a moment Sharon tugged Brenda's head to her other breast, and the blonde's grin widened. She liked this demanding side of the oh-so-cool, controlled Captain Raydor, and liked that she was the one who could make the other woman want in that way, with such need that she demanded rather than politely requesting. She had a sudden, shockingly vivid vision of her head buried between Sharon's legs while her lover's back arched and she ground up against Brenda's mouth, completely abandoned, wild and wanton and loving every second of it too much to feel the slightest bit of embarrassment.

Brenda's mouth watered. She wanted that. She wanted it for Sharon and for herself, wanted to be able to do that to Sharon, to make her feel as incredible as Sharon's talented mouth and nimble fingers made Brenda feel.

She raised her head and found Sharon looking steadily back at her, her expression intense. They stared at one another for a long, silent moment.

Sharon's hand stroked Brenda's hair away from her forehead and then softly kissed the spot where the stray curl had rested. "Let's go to bed."

Pins and needles tingled down Brenda's trembling legs when she stood, but as Sharon took her hand, she didn't mind, because she realized immediately that the captain was leading her not up the stairs to the guestroom they'd occupied together for the past four nights, but through the darkened ground floor to her own bedroom. She thought of the last time she'd been there, only a few weeks earlier but seemingly half a lifetime ago. Her steps slowed as they approached the doorway, as if she were approaching a shrine or entering a temple. Sharon switched the bedside lamp onto its lowest setting, causing warm golden light to alternate with deep shadow, and slowly turned back to Brenda. The blonde stood waiting, her hands clasped together as if she were a child, her breath coming erratically.

Sharon's expression was unreadable in the dim light as she briskly stripped off her remaining clothing. "Come here, Brenda Leigh."

Every bone in the younger woman's body seemed to melt at those words spoken in that low, impossibly sexy tone of voice. She felt the cool floor under the soles of her bare feet, and then the edge of the rug, and then she was wrapped in Sharon's arms.

Sharon kissed her demandingly, asking for everything Brenda had to give in that moment as surely as she never asked Brenda for anything at all the rest of the time, and Brenda gave it – her passion, her fear, herself – without hesitation. The taller woman steered them toward the bed and they fell back together, landing on their sides. Their limbs twined together eagerly, their bodies needing no further instruction or encouragement to engage in the dance that was as old as time itself.

Brenda's senses whirled, blotting out everything else. Sharon was kissing and kissing her, her fingers seeking out the places that never failed to drive her wild: the curve of her underarm, the edge of her rib cage, the rise of her pelvis. When those elegant fingers slipped into the abundant wetness between her legs Brenda meant to say No, it was her turn to go first; but Sharon had her burning, all the desperation of the last weeks rushing back to overwhelm her, and as the captain brushed over her aching clit and teased the incredibly sensitive skin just outside her opening, there was no way the deputy chief could bring herself to say "No, please don't fuck me right this very second."

Sharon let out a breathy chuckle, and Brenda realized she had spread her legs wide and was arching toward Sharon's touch, straining to draw her long fingers into her body and chase after the release that she knew hovered just out of reach. "Impatient?"

The younger woman swallowed hard and met the eyes glittering into hers. "I appear to be."

"Me too," Sharon admitted, her breath coming raggedly, and then two fingers slid inside Brenda excruciatingly slowly, her thumb found the blonde's swollen clitoris, and Brenda forgot to think about anything at all beyond the swelling and pulsing of her own body where it joined with her lover's, the exquisite pressure of Sharon's knowing touch against her walls, and the thick, wet glide of her body and Sharon's hand as her captain fucked her, stubbornly maintaining the slow pace that made Brenda writhe and pant. She hovered there, her eyes closed, her body straining, on the edge of orgasm, knowing she couldn't do anything to push herself over and Sharon could keep her there as long as she liked.

"Is that good?"

Brenda couldn't answer. It was amazing and it was awful and she needed Sharon, needed Sharon to make her –

"Do you want to come now, Brenda?"

Incongruously it registered in Brenda's brain that Sharon's sex-drenched voice could have been asking her anything, anything at all: Will you initial here, Chief Johnson? She had the most incredible voice, the kind of voice that made Brenda understand why people got into phone sex.

Still the pace of Sharon's thrusts didn't alter, but she began to fuck Brenda harder, to drive deeply into her body, and it was so good, so unbelievably good. Brenda heard herself making a high, keening sound, and then Sharon's perfect white teeth closed around her left nipple, biting forcefully, and Brenda's entire body seized, everything pulsing and shimmering and exploding.

She lay on the bed, panting as if she'd just run a sprint, her mouth open, her eyes closed, flashes of white still dancing on the canvass of her eyelids. She felt Sharon move gently, withdrawing her fingers and kissing her cheek and the tip of her nose. Brenda could think about nothing but the residual quivering of her body, as if she were wracked by fever and chills, and the fact that it was Sharon there beside her.

The mattress shifted, and Sharon tugged on the covers. Brenda finally roused herself enough to open her eyes and lift her head, and found her lover buried beneath the comforter, only her beautiful face and wisps of her hair visible.

"Hey," Brenda groused, "what's the big idea?"

Sharon shrugged. "I was getting chilly."

The blonde's features drew together in a scowl. "Who said you get to be all covered up like that?"

The captain's lips twitched into a smile. "If you don't like it, I guess you'd better come warm me up."

Sitting up with suddenly renewed energy, Brenda ripped the covers away, revealing the other woman's beautiful body in all its perfect imperfection, and did her best to maintain her fierce glare. "We've discussed this. You don't always get to go first, Captain Raydor."

She smirked. "No? Survey says I do."

"Until you don't," Brenda retorted, her eyes devouring the sight of Sharon's bare breasts as her fingers scratched lightly down the other woman's side, where she'd learned her lover was especially sensitive. In confirmation Sharon hissed and stretched, lifting her arms above her head to encourage the blonde. "You're very stubborn, Sharon. Very arrogant." Her hand smoothed over Sharon's abdomen to cup her sex, just as she had done earlier, but without the barrier of fabric between her fingers and the hot, moist flesh. Brenda hummed and stretched out beside Sharon, leaning over to kiss her collarbone as her fingers played between the taller woman's legs. "You're also very wet."

Sharon's eyes met hers, filled with challenge and humor. "Are you planning to do something about that?"

Brenda pretended to consider, her fingers dawdling over slick, puffy folds before teasingly dipping one inside. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd better." Fast as lightning, Sharon covered Brenda's hand with her own and shoved two of the younger woman's fingers deeply inside her body. Brenda was taken completely off guard, and even as she felt Sharon's muscles tense and flutter around her, the captain smirked.

"Uh-uh." Brenda withdrew her fingers from beneath Sharon's and sat up again.

The brunette's brow had furrowed in an uneasy frown. "'Uh-uh'?" she repeated.

"Not this time."

Sharon was still frowning, and as Brenda rearranged herself she let the other woman think, just for a minute, that she intended to leave her like this, dripping and eager and unsatisfied. The woman was entirely too smug for her own good or for Brenda Leigh's peace of mind.

But then Brenda's fingers encircled Sharon's ankle, coaxing her to bend her knees and make room for the blonde's slender body between them, and her intentions became clear.

"You don't have to do that," Sharon protested, because that was what you said, wasn't it?

Brenda scowled at her over her bent knees, the expression more serious this time. "Why wouldn't I want to?" she retorted. She smoothed her hand over the back of one leg, from the tender inside of Sharon's knee to the top of her thigh, and then pressed a kiss to the other leg. "You just might have to play teacher again, but I'm a fast learner."

Sharon chuckled. "I bet you are."

"I was an excellent student," she reassured primly, and then dropped to her elbows. Sharon's ass wiggled slightly and her toes flexed as she made herself more comfortable, and Brenda began to stroke her shin and the delicate bones of her foot, calming them both with the familiar skin-to-skin contact. Brenda breathed deeply, filling her senses with the heady, musky scent of Sharon's arousal, distinct and unexpectedly seductive. The chief had the urge to cover herself in Sharon's scent, to bathe in it, as if by doing so she could absorb the other woman through her skin and carry her with her all the time.

She nipped playfully at the top of Sharon's thigh, just below the swell of her ass, and the other woman yelped in surprise.

"Just makin' sure you're paying attention."

The older woman breathed out harshly. "Oh, you have my full attention, Brenda."

And Brenda was determined to keep it. She nuzzled Sharon's inner thigh, thinking of the times the other woman had done this to her; and then she decided it was best not to compare. Sharon's technique was like… like advanced calculus. Tonight Brenda would be happy with algebra, as long as it made Sharon happy too.

The first, tentative contact of her lips and tongue with Sharon's slick, delicate flesh allayed Brenda's fears as it ignited her insatiable curiosity. She needed to learn every centimeter of Sharon's wondrous body, absorb every sigh, every minute shift of her hips, and lose herself in the flavor and texture of her.

Sharon felt herself smile even as her sex quivered in response, the first touch of Brenda's tongue lapping delicately at her zinging along her nerve endings. That tender, shy hesitation was incredibly erotic coming from the bold, insistent, confident deputy chief (and she accused Sharon of being arrogant?). The captain hummed on a note of encouragement.

That tongue and those lips grew bolder, exploring Sharon thoroughly, mapping her through touch and taste, making careful notes of each spot that made her shift or sigh. More pressure here; less there, teasing; a long lick; a gentle nibble at her swollen labia. Brenda settled into a rhythm guided by the small thrusts of Sharon's hips, the way she rolled toward and away from the blonde's questing mouth, and Sharon's hand came to rest on Brenda's head, stroking her hair.

Slender fingers toyed with the sensitive skin around Sharon's opening and she moaned unabashedly, her hips shifting willfully, aching for penetration, for something, anything, to relieve the slow, heavy throb of her nerve endings. The slow glide of a single finger was exquisite and she cried out harshly, bearing down as her lover withdrew it just as slowly – oh, God, there was nothing better than this, better than that unhurried, dragging glide through flesh that Sharon was sometimes convinced was even more sensitive than her demanding little clitoris. Her lovers, male and female, always seemed to feel the need to rush through this part, to drive into her faster and harder, but to the captain this felt perfect, absolutely perfect, and if she could just hold onto it –

Brenda wasn't rushing. She added a second finger and Sharon twisted, bearing down against the motion of her hand, impaling herself on those seeking digits with agonizing slowness. She felt her thighs begin to tremble and burn, her hands fisting around the lattice work of the headboard, squeezing until the edges dug painfully into her flesh. She was talking, probably babbling, encouraging Brenda and telling her how good it felt, how fucking good, that she was a great student, an A+ student and deserved a gold star, and then the younger woman was sucking at her clit, teeth scraping lightly, and Sharon was coming, not having to chase it but simply letting the sensation rush up to overwhelm her, and she heard herself wail, the sound shocking in the quiet room.

Her eyes closed, Sharon listened to her own desperate, panting breathing as it gradually grew more even. She felt the brush of Brenda's soft curls, and then her equally soft mouth pressing a lingering kiss to the crease at the top of her thigh, where the flesh was damp and sticky. After another moment her head came to rest on Sharon's abdomen, her arm draping across the taller woman's torso to cup her breast.

"Was that okay?"

A measure of the insecurity in the low drawl was sincere, but Sharon recognized fishing for a compliment when she heard it. She smirked. "Passable," she murmured, and pressed against Brenda's narrow shoulder, urging the younger woman to crawl up her body for a long, lingering kiss that left no doubt about how much the captain had enjoyed herself.

Brenda rested her head on Sharon's shoulder and the taller woman instinctively cradled her, trying to focus only on how right this felt and keep the doubts and internal conflict at bay a little longer; but it was the seeming rightness that gave rise to the conflict. Having Brenda here like this, in her bed, in her arms, felt perfect, and it scared the shit out of Sharon because this thing with the deputy chief was so ill-planned, so destructive – so transient.

To her shame, that was what bothered Sharon the most: the impermanence, the sense that every night she spent with Brenda Leigh brought them one night closer to the end of whatever this thing was.

Sharon swallowed. "I'm going to get ready for bed," she said, gently but efficiently disengaging herself from the other woman.

"Hmm. 'Kay." Brenda rolled onto her side and cuddled the pillow, and Sharon couldn't help smiling slightly. Of course Brenda wasn't going to ask if she could sleep in Sharon's bed tonight; she was just going to stay there until the captain either ousted her or decided to let her remain.

There was no question, was there? With a sigh, Sharon retrieved a second set of pajamas from her dresser and tossed them onto the bed before she changed into her own and slipped into the bathroom. She wanted Brenda with her. That was the problem.

Brenda had the comforter pulled up to her waist when Sharon emerged, her torso clad in gray satin. She smiled softly at the brunette, her whole countenance glowing with contentment, and even as Sharon felt herself smile back she envied the younger woman that peace.

Sharon snapped off the light and slid beneath the covers, determined to focus on the blissful relaxation that permeated her body. She drifted for long moments, taking deep, even breaths, until Brenda spoke.

"Why did you call?"

"Hmm?"

"Last Monday. Why did you -?"

"Oh." The bed shifted slightly as the captain rolled onto her back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. "My mother."

Brenda sat up and peered down at her. "Your mama? Did something happen?"

"Oh, no." Sharon sighed. "I'm a creature of habit, Brenda. I go visit her at the nursing home on Mondays, and sometimes it makes me… sad."

"Oh, Sharon." Brenda lay back down and delicate fingers rubbed Sharon's arm through her pajama top. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry."

Sharon knew Brenda felt the way she'd flinched away at the endearment, but this was not a conversation she wanted to have tonight. "It's fine, Brenda. Everybody gets sad sometimes. Let's go to sleep."

For once Brenda didn't say a word, but Sharon could feel her sudden tension. After a moment the blonde breathed out softly and cautiously edged closer. Sharon jumped. "Your feet are freezing!" she exclaimed.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." Battling her better judgment, Sharon moved over and wrapped her arm around the other woman's waist. Brenda sighed again, this time relaxing into the embrace.

"Good night, Sharon."

"Good night, Brenda."

Everything was fine, Sharon told herself. It was fine that Brenda Leigh Johnson was sleeping in her bed and calling her 'honey' and acting like they were a real couple. It was fine that the affair they'd been having couldn't be an affair anymore because Brenda had left her husband (except she hadn't, had she? He'd left her). It was fine that Agent Howard thought Sharon was Brenda's midlife crisis (less expensive than a Ferrari or a facelift, she supposed) and that he was probably right. It was fine that Sharon lost a little bit more of her self-respect every day that she let Brenda stay here as if she belonged. It was fine that the messy, single-minded, drawling deputy chief was filling up her home and her thoughts until Sharon couldn't remember what it had been like before she was there.

Except that it wasn't.

None of it was fine at all.

The next morning when Brenda appeared in the kitchen to scramble herself an egg she found Sharon drinking black coffee and eating half a pink grapefruit. Sharon smiled slightly and said, "Good morning."

And then Sharon said, "Brenda Leigh, you can't stay here. You have to leave."


	22. Chapter 22

_Author's Note: No one drop dead from a coronary, but here, after much ado, is the next chapter of B&B. This one was hard for me to write, and I don't love it. That said, please let me know if you're still reading._

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Change Partners**

"And as you can see, it has lovely southern exposure, so you'd get lots of light – morning sun here in the bedroom, and afternoon in the living area, which I think is the ideal combination."

Brenda smiled brightly. "I need all the help I can get wakin' up in the mornings." Keen, anxious eyes sought Sharon's. "What do you think?"

"The proportions are nice," the dark-haired woman murmured, the soul of neutrality as she shifted her weight onto one peep-toe, and Brenda's eyes automatically followed the contours of her flexing calf. Then she stepped closer to the captain.

"Yeah, but do you like it? I want you to like it," Brenda added in a lower voice, her gaze disconcertingly earnest.

All things considered, Brenda was pretty proud of the way she'd handled Sharon's pronouncement the other morning. She'd fought down the rising tide of panic at the idea that Sharon was throwing her out and had instead started calling real estate agencies. It was the adult thing to do, the logical thing to do; and, she'd told herself with enforced calm, it wasn't like Sharon had said she never wanted to see her again. After all, Brenda hadn't expected them to go from stolen kisses and sneaking around to spend a few hours together to being domestic partners; she'd just wanted to be with Sharon, to be near her while she got her feet back on the ground.

Mentally repeating all of this to herself, Brenda glanced at the realtor before turning back to her dark-haired companion. Surely this wasn't how Sharon had expected to spend her Sunday afternoon, but she'd offered no protest when Brenda had asked her to come along to the viewings. That had to be a good sign.

"It wouldn't be my apartment," Sharon pointed out a shade too sharply, and the blonde's confidence wavered.

"Yeah, but I'd want you to feel comfortable spendin' time here." Smiling softly, Brenda interlaced their fingers and squeezed, and Sharon tried not to flinch. "There's plenty of space, but not too much – if I had more space that'd just give me room to make a bigger mess – and I might actually go to the gym with it right downstairs. It's close to work, too." Her fingers squeezed Sharon's again, and her ring dug into the older woman's flesh. Sharon winced and jerked away, and Brenda immediately looked both apologetic and confused, as if suddenly reminded of the ring's presence on her hand and embarrassingly aware of its incongruity. "But it's far from you," she pointed out, almost whining.

Julie was plainly confused_. So am I, honey_, Sharon thought wryly, trying to ignore the unpleasantly rapid thudding of her pulse and the tingles of anxiety toying with her spine. "You wouldn't both be living here?" the realtor asked, and then immediately looked horrified. _Yeah, rookie mistake_, Sharon silently agreed. "I'm sorry. I just assumed you were married. To each other." Julie's eyes grew huge and her face flamed. _Yeah, keep digging_. The captain experienced a pang of sympathy for the young woman. "I'll, ah – I'll just be right outside. I have to, uh, return some calls."

After Julie had scurried for cover, Brenda turned to Sharon. The blonde was blushing too. "That was awkward," she said apologetically. "I just didn't think – Why didn't you say somethin'?"

Sharon's lips parted in dismay although the balance of her expression didn't alter. "What exactly do you suppose would have been appropriate, Brenda? 'If you're going to drag me along to shop for real estate, and suggest to the realtor that I'm your girlfriend – which, by the way, is something we have _never_ discussed – you might want to consider first removing your wedding ring in order to avoid any misunderstandings'?"

Brenda's neck reddened – the curse of the fair-skinned – with a combination of anger and shame, reacting to the hard edge in her lover's voice. "I just didn't think. I mean it's not some subconscious – I lost it once, down the drain in the sink, and I had to call the Roto-Rooter guy – actually it was a woman – and so since then I just stopped takin' it off, but it doesn't mean anything," she stammered, getting the words out as quickly as possible, and tugging on the diamond solitaire and its matching band. The gold resisted as it approached her knuckle and she yanked mercilessly, scraping the tender skin. Fisting her fingers around the visible tokens of the marriage vows she'd broken, she held them out to Sharon.

The older woman stared back at her. The gesture reminded her of the way the children, when they were small, had deposited their sticky, saliva-coated chewing gum in their mother's palm when they tired of it. The same distasteful expression passed over her features. "I don't want them," she pointed out.

Brenda's fist dropped to her side and she swallowed hard. "But you are, aren't you?"

Sharon blinked, feeling as if she'd forgotten to learn the lines that had been penned for her to recite. She was used to this, Brenda's mind making these sudden leaps where she couldn't follow, but today rather than habitual it seemed symptomatic: Brenda Leigh was going somewhere Sharon couldn't follow. "I am what?"

The blonde looked genuinely perplexed. "My – my girlfriend."

The captain minutely scrutinized Brenda's irregular features for some sign that she knew this wasn't how it actually worked, that you didn't just pull off your wedding ring and shack up with someone else (not necessarily in that order) and announce that you were an established couple, that real life was much more complicated than that. To her dawning horror, Sharon's sharp eyes discerned no such indication. Was that how it worked in Brenda's world? Sharon now, Fritz before, Pope before that, and Brenda's ex-husband, and whoever had come before him. Off with the old, on with the new. The music kept playing, so you just changed partners and continued the dance without missing a step?

"No," she said hollowly.

Brenda's eyes widened and her mobile features tensed. "You don't want to be my girlfriend?" she asked in an uncharacteristically small voice.

Sharon shook her head in disbelief, as if by doing so she could change the image being projected by the kaleidoscope and see something entirely different. She hadn't been answering the question, really. It was simply the only word in her mind. No. No no no no no, to all of it.

"I can't do this."

It was hard to watch Brenda's face and see the panic and the fear and the hurt rush in. "You don't have to be here. If you didn't want to look at apartments with me, all you had to do was say," she blurted out with false brightness.

"You know that's not what I mean." Sharon grasped the windowsill for support, her fingernails sinking sharply into the fresh paint. "I can't do this, any of it. I can't just replace your husband. I can't pretend the last three months didn't happen, that we didn't do something awful and hurtful. You want a fresh start. You want to play house in a new home with a new partner –"

Brenda gaped. "That's not true!" she exclaimed hotly. "You _know_ that's not true! I understand what you mean, that I can't just move in with you, and that's fine. We skipped a lot of steps. But I want to be _with_ you. Don't you want that?"

"It's not that simple, Brenda. How can you not understand that?" Sharon demanded, quietly furious at the other woman and herself and this whole situation. How had she ended up here? How had she let things come to this point? "You can't just throw your old life away and get a new one. I _have_ a life. I have a family and a home and – well, I had a job," she amended bitterly. "That's my real life. It can't be your escapist fantasy. It's too… damaging."

Brenda's face was eerily pale around the bright, angry spots of color on her cheeks. "Sharon, how can you even say that, any of it? You wanna talk about damage? How have _I _damaged _you_? I ended my marriage for you."

Sharon lifted the hand that had been supporting her weight and held it up, palm out. "No," she said flatly. "No. If you ended your marriage because you don't want to be married anymore, then fine. If you think you did it for me, then Agent Howard is right. You need to go back home."

She hated the tears pooling in those dark chocolate eyes, and hated herself more for her response to them. She hated that she could be manipulated this way, by a woman she knew to be a master manipulator, and still want to pull Brenda into her arms, to wipe away the tears and tell her it was all right, she hadn't meant any of it.

But she did mean it. Sharon had allowed herself to get swept up in this blonde tornado, and she'd lost sight of herself in the process. She couldn't undo what they'd done, but she could stop it before it got any worse, before it destroyed her completely. Staying with Brenda, living out this farce and trying to pretend that it was reality, giving her her love, would kill her.

Sharon stepped away from the window. She felt her legs beneath her, relatively steady, bones and blood and sinews atop three-inch heels. "I need to go now."

Brenda had folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I always knew you could be a bitch," she said quietly, "but I didn't know you could be this cruel."

The brunette tried to hide her flinch as she readjusted the shoulder strap of her purse. "It would be cruel to go on like this," she replied, proud of the steadiness of her voice and the dryness of her eyes. She gazed at Brenda in profile and admitted to herself that she was glad not to have to meet her eyes. "You can't run away forever, Brenda."

She had nearly reached the door, her footsteps echoing loudly in the empty apartment, when Brenda's parting shot reached her ears: "A bitch _and_ a coward. I'm not the one who's runnin.'"

Sharon closed the door behind her. She felt her feet beneath her, her lungs expanding and contracting. Keep moving, keep breathing. She nodded to Julie, who sat behind the wheel of a little red compact. The metal of her keys dug into her palm. The blistering ache in her chest would go away. She would be fine.

It would all be fine.

2.

"Chief?"

Brenda stopped in the act of removing her reading glasses and rubbing her tired eyes. "Lieutenant Provenza, I thought you'd gone home."

"I was downstairs talking to Gonzalez in dispatch – he owes me fifty bucks – when a call came in."

She screened her yawn behind her hand. In Major Crimes the standard five-day work week didn't mean much, but this five-day week had truly felt like the week from hell. All Brenda wanted was to sleep. Of course, that had been all she wanted the night before, too, and her attempts had met with less than resounding success. Sleeping in the bed she'd shared with her husband clearly wasn't going to happen, and sleeping in the guest room just felt weird. She'd finally drifted off on the sofa around four. Her eyes felt gritty and her back ached, to say nothing of the ache in the vicinity of her heart, so perhaps she could be excused for being less than patient with her eldest lieutenant.

"It's dispatch," she pointed out rather sharply, looking back at the report on the computer screen. "They get calls all the time. That's the point."

Provenza just shrugged slightly, taking the deputy chief's foul temper in stride. "This one was a drive-by in the 700 block of Forrest."

Brenda felt Provenza's eyes on her as he waited for the information to register. Forrest was a quiet street in a nice neighborhood, hardly a hot-bed of gang activity; but that wasn't why he'd come back upstairs to tell Chief Johnson.

Her eyes widened. "Sharon!" she exclaimed. "Captain Raydor?" Instinctively she jumped to her feet, banging her knee on the underside of her top desk drawer.

The lieutenant held up his hand. "The captain's fine, but yes. I hope she has good homeowner's insurance. Some asshole in an Escalade opened up on her house."

The blonde was already shrugging into her comfort sweater. "She's okay?" she demanded, agitated. "You're sure she's okay?"

He nodded brusquely. "Yeah, chief. She made the call. Sounded mad as hell."

Sharon was okay. Sharon was alive and safe and mad as hell. Brenda was mad as hell too, _at_ Sharon, but there was no question of where she was headed as she tore out of the Murder Room and ran full bore toward the elevators.

By the time Brenda Leigh had navigated the snarled traffic that characterized the tail-end of rush hour, which was even worse than the snarled all-the-time traffic, only one police cruiser was left on the street outside Sharon's house, its flashing blue lights creating a hypnotic pattern on the shards of glass framing the windows that stretched across the front of the split-level. Flashing her badge and a brisk nod at the young officer in the car, Brenda ducked under the all-too-familiar yellow crime-scene tape. The front door stood ajar, but all was darkness within.

"Sharon?" Brenda called, and then, raising her voice, "Captain Raydor!"

She stood in the foyer, looking neither to the left nor the right because she didn't want to take in the broken glass, the shattered picture frames, the overturned lamp, the stuffing spilling out of Sharon's favorite armchair, the one where she sat to read. If she'd been sitting there when the shooter had struck –

But she hadn't been, Brenda reminded herself resolutely, and again called, "Sharon Raydor! Where are you?"

It wasn't her sixth sense, but one of her regular five – the olfactory – that led her through the darkened house and out onto the patio. That door, too, was cracked open, the scent of smoke drifting in on the still evening air.

"Do you know," she demanded, raising her voice and launching in before she was even fully outside, "that your front door is standin' wide open?"

From where she sat cross-legged on the patio tile like a child at story hour, Sharon looked up with a slow, baleful blink of her green eyes. "This may have escaped your notice, Chief Johnson," she said very deliberately, enunciating each syllable with care, "but I am also experiencing a notable lack of window glass. Locking the door struck me as superfluous."

"And don't you think maybe you oughta be doin' something about that, instead of sittin' out here –" Brenda surveyed the other woman narrowly, homing in on just exactly what Sharon was doing. The tumbler of bourbon on the rocks at her elbow came as no surprise, but Brenda's eyes narrowed as she focused on the hand-rolled cigarette clamped between those long thin fingers. She sniffed the air again, and yes, the odor was unmistakable; the deputy chief could only suppose she'd been so intent on seeing Sharon alive and whole that the rest of her senses had taken a temporary leave of absence. "Oh, my Lord. Are you _high_?"

The captain had the nerve to raise one eyebrow. "It's for the stress-induced heart condition I've no doubt developed this evening."

Brenda couldn't even imagine what her own expression looked like as she gaped at her former lover. Sharon certainly did seem very calm – too calm. This accounted for the captain's unlooked-for acceptance of Brenda's presence there on her patio at 9:00 at night only five days after she'd – not broken up with her, the blonde reminded herself. At least not according to Sharon, who insisted they'd never actually been together in the first place. Shaking her head, Brenda took in Sharon's slim gray trousers and dark sweater, her neatly brushed hair and smoothly applied makeup. She looked fine. She looked normal.

Captain Sharon Raydor sitting out back smoking a joint a couple of hours after she could have died in a drive-by at her own home was so far from normal that Brenda Leigh didn't even know in which direction she should look for normal.

Brenda bit her lip and wondered what Sharon looked like when her world was falling apart.

Maybe she looked normal. Maybe she looked just exactly like this.

Brenda's nostrils flared as she took a deep breath, and the odor of the pot made her head swim a little. She stepped back slightly. She needed to get Sharon out of here before she ended up with a contact high.

"I told Claire I'd dispose of any illegal substances she left in my home," the captain said, as if it were an after-thought.

"And you always keep your word, don't you?"

There was a trace of hostility in Brenda's voice, but if the other woman heard it, she chose to ignore it.

"Thank you for coming," Sharon said quietly, and Brenda jumped as if she had screamed. She'd expected the older woman to be angry, furious even, and had told herself she wouldn't care; she was too relieved that Sharon was alive and healthy and all in one piece to _be_ furious. For that matter, Brenda was pretty furious herself – when she thought of Sunday afternoon, something hot and bitter bubbled inside her, and she had to shove it down before it could erupt – but any amount of anger directed at a living, breathing woman was a thousand times better than agonized grief over glazed green eyes and chalky white skin marred by dark blood.

Gratitude, though, scared her.

Brenda's biting of her lower lip turned into gnawing. "I'm glad you're okay," she said, and her voice was a little rough around the edges.

The older woman nodded slowly. "Yeah," she replied on an exhale. "So am I."

Brenda contemplatively shifted her weight from foot to foot before asking, "Where are you going to go, Sharon? You can't stay here."

She shrugged. "Someone has to."

"Exactly, which is why there's an officer outside in his patrol car. There's no reason you can't go somewhere more… comfortable for the night."

Again the captain exhaled slowly, reaching up to rub the center of her forehead as if in anticipation of the headache that would surely assault her senses in the morning. "I don't want to go to a hotel. I'd rather sleep in my own bed. There's no reason I can't."

No reason, except that Brenda Leigh wasn't particularly keen on the idea of leaving Sharon alone in a chemically altered state in a house with glass and bullets sprayed throughout the ground floor. She rolled her eyes. "That's not a good idea and you know it. Come on, now; you can come home with me."

"My, isn't that an attractive offer," Sharon returned facetiously, and Brenda scowled.

"I have a guest room," she said bluntly. "That's the best offer you're likely to get."

The brunette looked up at her, expressionless, fingering the rim of the glass tumbler beside her knee.

"Go pack a bag," Brenda prodded, and Sharon rose slowly, wobbling only slightly as she did so. The taller woman turned as if dazed and wandered inside, presumably in the direction of her bedroom. Brenda's ponytail bounced against her neck as she shook her head. Docile zombie Raydor was not her favorite incarnation of the captain, but for now, she'd take it. Apparently marijuana made the stubborn captain a lot easier to deal with.

Brenda waited outside for a few minutes because, she acknowledged, she didn't want to be in the house. All that havoc where she had spent so many cozy nights was distressing enough without the added knowledge that she was no longer a welcome guest and that, if Sharon had anything to say about it, there would be no more cozy nights.

Not with Brenda Leigh, anyway. Maybe with Kate or another ex-girlfriend or one of the women whose gazes lingered on Sharon whenever she went out in public, the blonde thought bitterly, and then shook her head again to snap herself out of it. She marched toward Sharon's bedroom.

"You ready?" she asked as she poked her head through the doorway, and then stopped short. Sharon was sitting on the bed, leisurely sipping the dregs of her drink.

"For heaven's sake," Brenda muttered in disgust. She strode over to the dresser and yanked drawers open at random, fishing out underwear, pajamas, and casual clothes the other woman could throw on the next morning. "Get your toothbrush, Sharon, and whatever else you need."

The blonde looked over her shoulder to see that for a few seconds the captain remained still, gazing at her almost contritely, before rising and making her way into the bathroom. Brenda heard a cabinet open and close, something clatter in the sink, and then Sharon was at Brenda's elbow. She wordlessly tucked the items she held into the leather satchel the deputy chief had removed from the closet – trust Raydor not to have anything as plebeian as a gym bag.

The relatively brief ride to the house that had been Brenda and Fritz's was silent; Sharon was so still that Brenda wondered if she'd fallen asleep. When the blonde pulled into the driveway, however, Sharon opened the passenger side door with surprising alacrity for someone in her condition.

Only when Brenda had unlocked the door, automatically flipped on the light switch, and dropped her oversized handbag on the table already containing a week's worth of unsorted mail did she realize that Sharon was still standing on the porch, motionless, peering into the house as if she expected some fierce creature to leap from the shadows and attack her. The deputy chief realized that the captain hadn't crossed her threshold since that oh-so-eventful Thanksgiving Day, which felt like part of another lifetime but had, in reality, been less than three weeks earlier. If she thought too much about it, she was sure her head would spin, the unpredictable expansion and contraction of time inducing a bout of vertigo; so instead she switched on another lamp and smiled brightly.

"Come on in," she invited too jovially, half afraid her intoxicated guest might bolt. Sharon's expression gave nothing away as she stepped inside the pool of light and stood stiffly, holding her bag against her stomach.

"Would you like somethin' to drink?" Brenda continued in the same inappropriately cheerful tone, which she couldn't switch off even though each syllable made her cringe internally. "A glass of water, or some coffee? Tea, maybe?"

Sharon had to lick her lips and clear her throat before she could speak clearly. "Water would be nice, thank you."

The deputy chief made a beeline for the kitchen and the captain sidled in after her, still gripping her overnight bag. Brenda found herself avoiding that solemn, bloodshot, slightly glassy gaze as she retrieved a large plastic tumbler, half filled it with ice, and poured the water. When she held the cup out to Sharon she waited a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, watching those thin, long fingers grip and tighten, making sure the older woman was alert enough not to let it slip through her grasp. The captain held onto the tumbler, and Brenda turned away.

She'd let Sharon slip through her fingers. She'd had her, in her bed, in her arms, and now –

And now she had her in her kitchen. Brenda Leigh gave herself a mental shake and sternly ordered herself to snap out of whatever this was.

The clock on the microwave resolutely informed the blonde that it was only 9:34 p.m. Brenda gnawed on her lip and wondered if she should suggest they adjourn to the living room and watch something on tv.

The captain saved them both. "I'm very tired," she said in her polite, professional tone. "I'd like to go to bed."

Relief flooded through Brenda. She hadn't thought this through; she hadn't considered what it would actually be like to spend the evening with the other woman. "Sure," she said brightly. "I'll just go change the – Oh."

Sharon didn't need to be at her sharpest to pick up on the obvious consternation. "_Oh?_" she repeated scathingly.

Brenda smiled sheepishly. "I put the sheets for the guest bedroom in the washer last week and, ah, they're still there."

Sharon's patrician upper lip curled with scorn, and Brenda reflected that she probably needed to go ahead and throw those sheets out – there would be no salvaging them from a week's worth of mildew.

"I'll just put you in my room," Brenda decided quickly. "And I'll sleep on the couch."

The taller woman's eyes flared with alarm. "Absolutely not," she replied. "_I_ will sleep on the sofa."

"It's really not comfortable, Sharon – it's one of those couches that are good for lookin' at and bad for sittin', let alone sleeping. You're takin' the bed, and that's the end of it." Decisively, Brenda reached for Sharon's bag, intent on carrying it into the master bedroom.

The captain grabbed the other strap in a vise-grip, so the two women were arrested in an awkward stand-off. "Brenda. Chief. There is absolutely no way I'm spending the night in your marital bed."

Brenda sighed, exasperated. Apparently the mind-altering powers of the marijuana and alcohol were wearing off. "Oh, for heaven's sake. It's just a piece of furniture, Sharon. Like you haven't slept with anybody else in that big ol' bed I shared for the last three weeks?"

The corner of Sharon's mouth twitched and tightened. "Of course I have. But I wasn't cheating on you with – I mean, I wasn't married to –" The nuances of grammar were too much for the captain's fuzzy brain, and she waved one hand dismissively, irritated. "I'll go back home."

"You plannin' to walk?" the chief challenged. "Because I'm not driving you. Come on, now. My bedroom isn't haunted, and it has the further merits of being free from both glass and bullets." She pulled sharply on the overnight bag, and Sharon, who still hadn't released her grip on the second strap, followed along as if she were attached to a leash. It was not a totally unappealing prospect.

Brenda Leigh again reminded herself that she wasn't the one on drugs, and efficiently frog-marched the taller woman down the hall to her bedroom.

"You go ahead and get changed," Brenda instructed as if she were talking to a tired child; and although Sharon stood watching her for a long moment, a brittle expression on her face and her arms folded protectively over her chest, she chose not to argue. Brenda felt her shoulders relax with the tiniest, most cautious bit of relief.

Brenda left the bathroom door open as she washed her face, and was pleasantly surprised to feel Sharon's presence as she wiped the last vestiges of cleanser from her skin. After a quick scrub with a towel, she looked up to find the captain carefully applying a perfect swirl of toothpaste to her toothbrush, and Brenda's shoulders relaxed a fraction more.

Standing there in the enforced intimacy of the small space as they both brushed their teeth, Brenda was seized by a pang of yearning, nostalgia for something she'd barely gotten to experience. She looked at the older woman, her thin frame swallowed in the oversized t-shirt Brenda Leigh had packed for her, her pale skin scrubbed free of makeup, and felt herself ache for this cozy, domestic nightly routine. She wanted to wrap her arms around Sharon's waist, lay her cheek against that smooth hair, breathe her in.

Brenda reminded herself that she was furious with Sharon Raydor, which she certainly was, but she wasn't sure that mattered any more. As she trailed Sharon back to the master bedroom, her eyes tracked the graceful sashay of the other woman's hips, and the blonde felt herself melting into a pool of want that had little to do with physical desire. She wanted Sharon, all of her, wanted the other woman to belong to her, to _want_ to belong to her.

The captain stood in the bedroom, grimly contemplating the queen-size bed as if she were contemplating the scene of her execution. Brenda's eyes swept over the room, trying to see it as Sharon must be seeing it, expecting the ghost of Fritz Howard to pop out from behind the headboard like a terrifying jack-in-the-box, but she couldn't. For her, Sharon's presence in the room transformed it.

"I'll just get my clothes so I won't have to disturb you in the mornin'," Brenda heard herself say as if all of this were completely natural, as if this weren't the most surreal night of her life. Her back to the other woman, she focused resolutely on the contents of her closet, yanking out a cream-colored sweater and contemplating the skirt with the cheerful poppy motif. It wasn't exactly seasonal, but surely people liked a bit of color this time of year, when the Los Angeles sky was almost sure to be a dull gray, with a stale wind whipping down through the canyons?

Behind her the bed creaked – Brenda never had liked that mattress; she'd be buying a new one when she moved into her apartment – and the deputy chief allowed herself a small, almost breathless sigh. It looked like Sharon wasn't going to bolt after all, which was just as well. Brenda didn't relish the thought of chasing her out into the dark California night.

The blonde turned back to the bed with her skirt and sweater hugged against her stomach. In the glow of the lamplight, Sharon was a slim, uneven curve beneath the line of the comforter. Brenda swallowed hard. "Well… let me know if you need anything. I hope you sleep okay."

Sharon didn't answer, and Brenda walked cautiously toward the door, as if the other woman could already be asleep and Brenda didn't want to disturb her.

"Brenda Leigh."

The voice was rough and thick. Brenda spun as if she'd shouted.

"You can stay here, if you'd like."

Sharon hadn't moved, so Brenda still couldn't see her face, let alone try to read what was happening behind those eyes. Brenda knew she should make a run for the living room sofa and not let the door hit her in the ass on her way out. "You can stay here, if you'd like" was absolutely the least romantic invitation she'd ever had. She didn't need champagne and rose petals, but she didn't hold herself so cheaply. Sharon was… chemically altered. Brenda was mad as hell. Nothing was resolved.

The curve of that familiar body beckoned Brenda like the song of a siren. Unceremoniously she dumped the clothes she'd collected in the floor, stripped off the yoga pants she'd paired with her loose tank top, and practically dove under the covers.

The warmth of Sharon's body seemed to permeate the entire bed, and although Brenda carefully avoided touching her, scrupulously maintaining an irreproachable six inches of mattress between their bodies, Brenda was certain she could feel each breath the older woman took. She breathed in deeply, smelling the cloying earthiness of smoke, the bitter sweetness of the bourbon, and, beneath all the rest, Sharon herself.

Sharon shifted, her heel grazing Brenda's shin. That simple contact arced through the smaller woman's body, filling her with the sharp yearning for more, for the solid warmth of Sharon's spine against her breasts.

Brenda Leigh reminded herself that she had every right to be angry with the prickly, aloof captain. She'd laid herself bare, offering her heart and her whole future to the other woman in a way she never had to anyone else, and the impossible woman had treated it like an insult. And then she'd done what Sharon Raydor always seemed to do: she'd run off.

Sharon sighed as if she'd read the blonde's thoughts. "The only thing worse than sleeping in this bed," she murmured in a tone tinged with self-reproach, "would be sleeping in it without you."

Brenda felt her heart swell with tremulous hope. After a moment she reached out, a cautious hand coming to rest on the curve of Sharon's hip.

Maybe, she thought, just maybe, it was all going to be okay after all. Sharon had run away once, but she was here now, and that, Brenda told herself, was what mattered. She wouldn't let her run away again.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Encounters (or That One Where Sharon Thinks a Lot, and Then Talks to Some People)**

Brenda woke to the unmistakable vibrating of a cell phone that she knew had to be Sharon's, but instantly recognized that the other woman's body was still heavy with sleep. Dark eyes blinked open, but otherwise the blonde remained carefully motionless, not wanting to risk disturbing her companion by so much as the twitch of a muscle.

Sharon had thrown the covers back from her side of the bed but her body was still unnaturally warm, the heat radiating out and into Brenda at every point of contact. Unsurprisingly Sharon had been restless and fitful during the night as she slept off the foreign substances coursing through her veins; she was going to feel like hell today. In sleep, though, her brow was smooth, her breathing even, and Brenda also breathed slowly and deeply, enjoying the possessive weight of the brunette's right leg hooked over her own, her arm draped over Brenda's mid-section.

Sharon's phone fell silent and Brenda relaxed. She would have to get up and get ready for work before too long – it was Saturday, but you didn't take the weekend off when you had two dead bodies and a passel of potential suspects to track down – but she wanted to let the captain sleep as long as possible. For selfish reasons, she acknowledged: asleep, Sharon was warm and open, her body having gravitated toward Brenda's and sought the physical closeness she was so determined to push away with both hands while she was awake and alert. Brenda wanted to preserve this intimacy, even as she felt like she was somehow stealing it. She dreaded the inevitable moment when Sharon would wake up and her body would stiffen as she pulled away, drawing back into herself.

Awful, horrible, impossible woman – what was Brenda going to do with her?

Brenda more than half expected Sharon's phone to start vibrating again, but the source of the sound she heard some twenty minutes later was something else entirely. Frowning, Brenda eased out from under Sharon as stealthily as she could, paused to pull on her yoga pants, and padded down the hall to the front door to see who was so importunately ringing the bell.

The visitor was so unexpected that Brenda Leigh dropped her poker face, managing to produce only a surprised "Hey there."

Claire Raydor smiled slightly, a smile eerily similar to her mother's, and the tall young man standing a few paces behind her folded his arms and looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Hey there, Brenda Leigh," the young woman returned in the faintly mocking tone that was Sharon all over, and cocked her head. "Is my mom here?"

The deputy chief reminded herself that she was a grown-ass woman, not a naughty child, and that she hadn't been caught doing anything wrong. She stood a little straighter and smiled at Claire before deliberately widening the circle to include the boy who had to be her brother. "She sure is, and she's fine. You know about what happened last night? You must've been worried sick about your mama."

"I drove down to surprise her. I was the one who got the surprise," Claire acknowledged.

"So she called me," the young man finally spoke up. "When I told her Mom called me last night and sounded fine, Claire announced that we should look for her here. So –"

"You must be Jonathan. Come on in, both of you. We'll have some coffee and wake your mama up, and you can see for yourselves." Brenda shooed them into the house in her best impression of her own mama, glad that one of the few household tasks she could be relied upon to remember was setting the timer on her coffee maker.

She left the Raydor offspring in the kitchen with oversized mugs and all the coffee accoutrements, and scurried back to the bedroom, juggling another full mug – with just a dollop of milk, the way Sharon liked it – and a large bottle of water.

"Sharon?"

The form that was now back under the covers shifted. "I brought you coffee and some water, and let me get you some aspirin. Just a sec."

The other woman was sitting up cautiously when Brenda returned with the white capsules, cradling the steaming mug. She accepted the medicine with a little nod that immediately made her wince; and after she had swallowed them down with a gulp of water and sipped her coffee, she dutifully began, "Brenda, last night –"

"Your kids are here," the younger woman interrupted flatly, uninterested in what Sharon had to say. "Well, two of 'em, anyway."

"Shit."

"They're worried, of course. While you take a shower and get dressed, I'll keep them entertained."

"I shouldn't be –"

"Shower, Sharon," Brenda put in abruptly, relishing her ability to boss the hung-over captain, and spun on her bare heel.

Sharon performed her morning ablutions in record time, for which Brenda was grateful, because it was awkward to sit here and ask Jonathan questions about medical school while Claire looked on with a knowing glint in her cat-like eyes. When the older woman appeared in the kitchen in the jeans and long-sleeved Henley Brenda had packed for her, with her wet hair neatly combed behind her shoulders, she was pale and her mouth was drawn, but otherwise Brenda thought she looked pretty much okay.

Apparently Sharon's daughter disagreed. "Jesus, Mom, what did you _do_ last night?" She darted a glance between the two women. "Or don't I want to know?" she appended slyly.

"Possibly I was a bit upset after our family home became the scene of a drive-by shooting," Sharon coolly snarked back. "Thank you for the coffee, Brenda. Let's go, kids. Chief Johnson has to get ready for work."

Brenda glanced at the clock and realized that Sharon was right. In fact, she was going to be late. She wondered if Will would give her overtime for wrangling the once and future head of FID all night long, but somehow she thought not.

She snagged Sharon's elbow as the brunette followed Claire and Jonathan down the porch steps. "We need to talk," she said in a low voice.

"Not now," Sharon muttered through clenched teeth, and Brenda rolled her eyes.

"Of course not now. I'll call you later, after work."

Sharon was non-verbal until Claire stopped at a drive-thru and procured more coffee for all three of them.

"How much did you drink last night?" Jonathan asked from the back seat of the Jeep with his peculiar politeness, as if afraid of offending his mother, and Sharon sighed. It was overcast, but she'd still sell part of whatever was left of her soul for a giant pair of sunglasses.

"Too much. Let's leave it at that."

The captain pretended she didn't see her children exchanging loaded looks via the rear-view mirror. More pressing matters, like keeping the contents of her stomach inside her stomach, required her immediate attention.

"Are you going to tell us what's going on?"

"All the glass will be replaced today, and the guard's still posted at the house, but I don't think –"

"Yeah, not what I meant. We'll get back to why someone's shooting at you, since you're being so evasive. What's going on with Brenda? Did you break up with her?"

"Wait, what?" Jonathon quickly lowered his coffee cup and raised his eyebrows. "You're dating a superior officer? Go, Mom."

Claire looked incredulously from her brother to her mother and back. "Do you two not talk?"

"We talk," Jonathan retorted defensively. "But I think our conversations are probably different from yours."

"We're not dating," Sharon replied flatly, sipping her own coffee and, as her head throbbed viciously, trying to remember why she and David had decided to procreate. She would not throw up in her daughter's vehicle.

"Right, of course not. You're just sleeping with her."

Jonathan looked confused. "Wait, I thought she was married to that FBI guy." When neither Sharon nor Claire contradicted him, his expression lodged somewhere between appalled and impressed. "Jesus, Mom."

"They're separated," Sharon put in, her lips barely moving.

"So what's the problem?" Claire demanded. Jonathan gaped, and Sharon whipped her head around to stare out the window at the passing traffic and immediately regretted it as the world spun with her.

"I'm not having this conversation with you – either of you."

"Could we maybe talk about the whole drive-by shooting thing?" Jonathan interjected rather pointedly, and Sharon sighed heavily.

"Later, son," she answered, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily across her back. "We'll discuss all of it later, after I've slept for about a century."

"Seriously, Mom, what were you and Bren –" Claire began again, and her brother quietly cut her off with a low "_Claire_. Not now." She had certainly inherited all of Sharon's tenacity.

There was still a patrol car parked in Sharon's driveway, this one containing a different but equally young officer, and the house had been transformed from war zone to construction zone, which was, at least, a step in the right direction. Sharon steeled herself, her stomach roiling, and Jonathan's warm palm came to rest on her shoulder.

"Look, Mom, I'll talk to them and find out what the deal is. You just go lay down. Do you need anything?"

Sharon's response was a meager smile. She felt completely and utterly pathetic, and was so very glad that Claire and Jonathan were there to witness it.

She was buried beneath the bed covers, cursing her own stupidity and praying for a quick demise, when she heard the door open and Claire's sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor.

"Mom?"

Sharon murmured in acknowledgment, which was apparently the wrong thing to do because her daughter flopped down on the foot of the bed and Sharon's body tightened in a burst of agony.

"I just do not understand you." Claire rocked on her haunches, jostling the mattress again, and Sharon swallowed a wave of nausea. "You were willing to have an affair with her – you, Ms. Betsy-By-the-Book – and now that she's left her husband for you, you don't want anything to do with her?"

"You don't understand, honey."

"No, I don't, which is what I just said," Claire agreed bluntly. "Talk about a dick move. If Rachel broke up with Matt –"

"What if Matt broke up with Rachel because he found out the two of you slept together, and then Rachel suddenly decided you and she would make a great couple?" Sharon snapped, fed up with her daughter's well-intentioned needling. "Do you think you'd still be so eager to rent the U-Haul and sign up for the lifetime membership?"

"Oh." Claire stood up and awkwardly rocked back on her heels. "I didn't know."

"That's because it's none of your damn business," Sharon replied coolly, burrowing under the comforter. She was fairly certain none of this was in the Good Parenting Handbook; but she didn't think it had a section on how to tell your adult children to butt out of the aftermath of your illicit home-wrecking affair. Maybe she'd write a letter to the editors and suggest an addition to the revised version.

Claire glared at her as she crossed the room. "Of course it is. I'll go for now, but you're my mother, and left to your own devices, clearly you're just going to fuck it up."

Sharon couldn't muster the strength to offer a response. Her daughter hesitated, one hand braced on the doorjamb, and looked over her shoulder at the tangle of covers on the bed, the mass interrupted by the familiar contours of Sharon's body and the long slash of her dark hair.

"You're in love with her," Claire said warily, her tone slightly brittle. "You know that, right?"

The pause was a long one, and when Sharon finally spoke her voice was muffled against the pillow. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I know."

2.

The house was blessedly quiet, blessedly empty. Sharon walked slowly into the living room, eyes peeled for the sparkle of the tiniest glass shard against the honey-colored wood, but Claire and Jonathan had done an impressive job cleaning up. The captain turned her head and looked toward the street, which was once again separated from where she stood by reassuringly thick window panes. The workmen had been almost astoundingly efficient – so in this matter, at least, Sharon Raydor was still being treated like one of the LAPD's own.

The chair and the sofa – she could have them reupholstered, she supposed. Was there someone in the greater Los Angeles area who specialized in the disguising of bullet holes in furniture? It sounded far-fetched enough to be possible.

Sharon sighed. Fuck it, she thought. She'd just replace them. Something dark brown, maybe, or even crimson.

She flopped down unceremoniously on her ravaged sofa, the fingers of her left hand distractedly picking at one of the rents in the fabric. Her eyes slowly roved over the room in which she spent most of her leisure time. It felt different, unfamiliar, estranged. There was only so much that could be accomplished with brooms and dustpans and gleaming new glass. It looked neater, tidier than it had; but Sharon suspected that even with new furniture, the memory of this violent, devastating event ripping through her own little personal sanctuary wouldn't be effaced.

As relieved as she was that Jonathan had taken Claire out for dinner and had even made noises about going to a movie afterward, Sharon realized that her ears were straining for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of another person in the house.

Not her adult kids, she admitted to herself, but Brenda.

The captain scowled into the deepening twilight. It was ridiculous. The woman had only been there for two weeks, and Sharon had known she'd leave eventually. Why had she let herself go and get so used to her presence?

Probably for the same reason she'd spent twenty years in Force Investigation, Sharon reflected, her lips curling in self-deprecation. She was a masochist, a glutton for punishment.

On most days, Sharon Raydor would have offered a far different explanation of her conduct, particularly her professional conduct, but today was not most days. Thanks to her absurd, weak over-indulgence the night before she felt fairly miserable physically, even after drinking a gallon of water and eating enough carbohydrates to choke the average horse, and her mental state was no better.

She chuckled dryly. Her mental state, she acknowledged, was worse. It resembled this room, tidy enough on the surface, but subject to the odd gaping hole with its stuffing pouring out.

Her behavior the night before had been appalling. As humiliating as it was today to think that Brenda had found her in that state, she also knew that she'd been incredibly lucky that it _had_ been Brenda and not anyone else. Imagine if another member of the LAPD had found the head of FID, very publicly on suspension pending investigation of her conduct, drunk and stoned.

"Stupid," Sharon said aloud, disgusted with herself, with her emotions and her lack of purpose and her self-destruction. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ woman!"

She closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what she'd done after Brenda had arrived, and shuddered. She was a level-headed, responsible middle-aged woman, not some fifteen-year-old drowning Ophelia. Smoking weed and going on a mini-bender – was it because she'd eschewed that rebellious phase most adolescents experienced? Was it the onset of dementia? Perhaps she and her mother could be roommates, she thought bitterly, and snorted to herself. The women of the Raydor family could have adjacent beds at the nursing home.

Having your home turned into the scene of a violent crime was something that, thankfully, most people never had to experience. Even so, Sharon's reaction had been completely unlike her, completely inappropriate. She queasily suspected that she'd done a great deal of gazing at Brenda Leigh Johnson like a lovesick calf, and what was it she'd ended up saying to the woman? That she needed the blonde there to be able to sleep?

The captain heard herself groan, the sound unexpected in the silence. She'd made a complete fool of herself. Just a week ago she'd made her very painful but very necessary stand, ending this ill-conceived relationship with the deputy chief, and at the first sign of trouble she'd crawled into the woman's bed like a frightened child.

And that was how she'd felt, really. She'd wanted comfort. She'd wanted to be held. She'd wanted someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, rather than being the one soothing and shushing everyone else's fears of the things that go bump in the night.

She was painfully sober now, and all too aware that life's little narratives seldom had happy endings. Her head throbbed viciously, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as her pride. Again her first instinct was to blame Brenda for causing her to behave like this, to lose her center of gravity and go hurtling off into some shadowy void that was foreign territory to logical, analytical Sharon; but again she knew that would be utterly unfair. Perhaps Brenda had been the catalyst, but none of this was her fault, not really.

It wasn't Brenda's fault that someone had tried to murder Sharon less than twenty-four hours earlier.

It wasn't Brenda's fault that her career was a worse shambles than her bullet-riddled living room, or that she felt completely purposeless and directionless without a reason to get up in the morning.

It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon had willingly broken what she considered a basic moral code, and that her self-respect had taken a serious hit as a result.

It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon could see herself crumbling before her children's eyes and feel Claire's hostility growing, as if perhaps both her daughters were destined to hold their mother in equally low esteem.

It _was_ Brenda's fault, though, that the relatively solitary existence the captain had relished for the last decade now felt so bleak, so barren.

The truth was that Brenda Leigh Johnson had somehow opened Sharon up, revealing needs and desires that, once discovered, refused to be shoved back into their locked cupboard and hidden away in some seldom-visited corner of Sharon's consciousness. She wanted companionship and affection, squabbling over who controlled the remote control or what to have for dinner, sex and morning breath and laughter and fighting and someone to curl up with under a blanket when the evenings turned chilly.

Sharon acknowledged that she probably wouldn't have trouble meeting someone, if she really wanted to. She could find a partner to share dinners and Sunday afternoon drives up the coast and deep glasses of red wine. The problem, of course, was that she didn't want someone; she wanted a spindly, drawling, conniving deputy chief who always gave tit for tat and was guaranteed to raise her blood pressure.

Her phone vibrated where she'd dropped it on the coffee table, and the impatient shudder of the little device crawled up its owner's spine, seeming to press against her nerves. Brenda was calling. Of course Brenda was calling, since before, when Sharon had desperately hoped to hear from her, she had reneged, and now that the older woman couldn't bring herself to answer, she was scrupulously keeping her promise.

Guilt pricked at Sharon's pores. At the very least she owed Brenda her thanks. But she felt too raw to talk to her now, too gloomy and exposed. Too out of control.

Granted, lounging on the sofa and vaguely watching endless episodes of _Midsomer Murders_ – a police procedural that was somehow comforting due to its laughable, programmatic absurdity and the rate at which bodies piled up in an otherwise idyllic English backwater – would probably not be recognized by most people as being "out of control," but Sharon knew that was what it was. If the way Claire arched one eyebrow when she returned home, raking her gaze over her mother as she intoned, "Oh, is this what we're doing now?" could be taken as a guide, her daughter also recognized her mother's state for what it was, even having never seen it before.

When villagers started dropping dead courtesy of the poisonous venom of a rare Ecuadorian frog (no doubt a dime a dozen in bucolic southeastern England), Sharon sat up and clicked off the television, as disgusted with herself as with Midsomer County's indefatigable murderers.

"What am I _doing_?" she demanded aloud.

She was a mess. She, Sharon Raydor, had spent most of the day in her pajamas. Her hair was unbrushed. So were her teeth, for that matter. Her skin felt unpleasantly dry, tight. She knew she looked like unholy hell.

Her house was a mess.

Her _life_ was a mess. And sitting here on the goddamn sofa watching television and feeling sorry for herself was about as useful as a paper umbrella in a torrential downpour.

She curled her lip in self-disgust. She needed to get a grip, get her center of gravity back.

On some level, she acknowledged, she must have believed that would magically happen once she got Brenda out of her personal space, although that wasn't the way she would have expressed it. She would have said something about giving the healing process the chance to begin, most likely, if she'd said anything at all.

She should have known better. Removing the younger blonde woman hadn't shored up Sharon's defenses; it had guaranteed their spectacular collapse. Her eyelids drooped shut. What a horrifying thought. Brenda Leigh Johnson had been the mortar holding this whole mess together.

Sharon knew she would have to deal with this situation with Brenda.

Just not tonight.

She couldn't answer the question of whether Brenda Leigh was the root cause or a symptom of the chaos that reigned in her normally orderly world; but she knew she couldn't contend with the younger woman until she'd made sense of all the rest. Sharon had been lying down for too long.

The doorbell rang. If she'd had the energy, the captain would have sworn. Instead she grunted. What hideous new surprise awaited her? she wondered. It would be just like Brenda to drive over here in a fit of pique because Sharon was refusing to take her calls, but Sharon felt as if her body was made of lead at just the thought of having to confront the younger woman and her irrepressible, stubborn energy tonight. She felt too raw, too battered by her own doubts.

Claire came thumping down the stairs. "Don't get up," she called facetiously, "I've got it."

Sharon sighed. Seconds ticked by as she awaited the announcement of Brenda Leigh's presence, but her ears pricked up as she heard a distinctly masculine rumble in dialog with her daughter.

She had straightened her posture instinctively by the time she heard dual sets of footsteps in her entryway and Claire's hesitant, "Mom? It's, ah, Commander Taylor?"

There was nothing Sharon could do about her unkempt hair and makeup-free skin or the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her shirt. But by the time she turned to face the unwelcome guest, all traces of dismay had been wiped from her features and she wore a reasonable facsimile of her game face. "Commander," she said dryly, unsmiling, "how unexpected."

"Hello, Sharon." When she made no move to get up, he sat without asking in the same chair he'd occupied once before. "I wasn't on duty last night and today has been a busy one, but I wanted to come by and see how you are after this… unpleasantness." He looked around the ravaged room and then expectantly back at her.

"I'm sure that's very kind of you, but I'm fine. A few coats of paint, a little fabric, and everything will be good as new." She spoke smoothly, keeping a weather eye on Taylor. Her mind clicked rapidly away. What the hell did the man want? He hadn't come over here to inquire politely as to the state of her health. She watched him shift in the chair, stretching one leg out in front of him.

"Major Crimes is still looking for the shooter."

She knew that, of course, and responded only with a tilt of her head.

He didn't speak again for a long moment, during which Sharon listened to the clock tick. He seemed almost to be waiting for something, but what? If he expected her to offer him a drink, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

When he finally did speak, it felt abrupt, sudden. "All alone tonight, captain? No company?"

Her skin prickled, a frisson of unease tingling down her spine. "My daughter is here – but you already know that. I'd hardly call her company."

"Then you're not expecting Chief Johnson?"

Sharon inclined her head, appraising the man. "Should I be?"

Taylor's eyes narrowed slightly, crinkling at the corners, and then he smiled that smarmy smile she particularly hated. "I keep my ear to the ground, captain. I find it can be very… helpful in my position. Word is the chief's been staying here with you because she and Agent Howard are having some – difficulties."

The captain regarded the commander without blinking, but her pulse was picking up unpleasantly. The gall of this man, to show up at her home – for a second time – with his old-maid gossip. But she didn't have the luxury of indulging her righteous indignation. Certainly Taylor was fishing – but for what, exactly? Did he have suspicions about the nature of the relationship she'd been having with Brenda? Did he know? Had someone said something, seen something?

Sharon reached up and smoothed her hair, using the simple gesture to steel herself. She'd been out of FID long enough for her carefully honed, enforced calm to get a little rusty, and she needed it now. She offered her own small, humorless smile. "As you can see, she isn't here."

Taylor placed his hands on his splayed knees, and Sharon felt her nostrils flair. Why did some men sit like that, as if they just assumed everyone wanted a closer look at their genitals? She'd have to have that chair recovered – and it hadn't been sprayed by bullets.

"Why the curiosity about the chief, commander? Surely you saw her at work today." Instantly Sharon realized she shouldn't have said that. It was Saturday, and she would have had no reason to assume Major Crimes was working a case. Her irritation spiked.

"I'm just trying to determine whether anyone else had reason to expect Deputy Chief Johnson to be here last night at the time of the shooting."

"Other than you?" He blinked, and she elaborated, "You said anyone _else_. Did you expect her to be here?"

The commander raised his eyebrows. "As I understand it, the chief was at work last night," he returned, which, of course, wasn't an answer to her question, and then he stood. How interesting. Suddenly he was in a hurry to leave. "Thank you for your time, captain."

The brunette blinked, her lips narrowing as she instinctively leapt to her feet and trailed the man toward her front door. "What about my OIS?" she demanded, her tone just this side of overtly hostile. "You must have had time to complete your investigation. It's _December_. I've been suspended for over two months."

Taylor slipped his hands into his pockets and jingled his change. "Captain, you may as well hear it from me: my investigation has turned up some pressing concerns about the… structural integrity not only of FID, but of all of Internal Affairs. The investigation really isn't just about your conduct - which I have no doubt was both lawful and necessary – any more. You'll be hearing from my office soon."

Sharon stood there, leaning in the doorway, until she'd watched Russell Taylor get into his car and drive away. Her anger roiled and bubbled just below the surface, but more worryingly, a deep sense of unease had taken up residence in her gut.

That man was a snake, always looking out for his own interests and willing to bite anyone who got in his way. Sharon had known that for years. She'd dealt politely, carefully with him, reasoning that it was best not to bait a venomous reptile, so they'd had little in the way of overt conflict. But make no mistake, she knew better than to trust him.

"Structural integrity," he'd said, as if IA were a bridge. She knew what that meant. It meant he was planning to take her division away from her. She didn't know precisely how, but he'd almost told her as much by assuring her that she'd be cleared of all charges, just not yet. Not until he had time to finish doing… whatever he was doing. That had been a false step on his part.

Just what _was_ he doing? And how did it concern Brenda?

The commander had apparently expected Brenda to be at Sharon's house last night. Sharon didn't like that. She didn't like that at all. Her eyes narrowed against the darkness, as if that would help her to see the man's motives.

In all her years in IA, Sharon had been the object of hostility, intimidation, even death threats. But no one had ever taken the rather excessive, cinematic step of shooting up her house until Brenda Leigh Johnson had come to stay.

She felt that frisson again. No, she didn't like this at all. The leak, the mugging, the robbery, and now this – someone had been trying to get rid of a certain blonde deputy chief for months. If presented with enough opportunities, that person was bound to succeed.

And Sharon wasn't around to prevent those opportunities. She was sitting on her sofa, watching murder mysteries, drinking too much, and feeling sorry for herself. She snorted in disgust. No more, she promised herself. No more.

"Mom?" Claire called from behind her, her voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. "Can you come here? I was trying to bag up the rest of the trash with the broken glass and everything, but I've managed to make an even bigger mess. I'm afraid it's a two-person job."

"All right, honey." Sharon stepped inside, firmly closing the door behind her as if shutting out all traces of the commander's presence. "Don't worry, we'll clean it up."

After tonight, the captain knew she had more than one mess to clean up, and she wouldn't put it off for a minute longer than she had to. It was time for her to be back where she belonged, professionally and personally. She stopped at the utility closet, extracting a broom (which she almost never used for riding, only sweeping) and an over-sized dustpan. "Don't cut yourself," she called in warning, because once you were a mother, you were always a mother, even when your kids grew up and presumably knew better than to grab jagged glass shards with their bare hands.

The other messes would require more than a broom and dustpan, but as the head of the Force Investigation Division, the captain was no stranger to the cleaning up of messes – particularly messy messes. It was, she decided, well past time for her to focus her unique skill set on a few little janitorial projects of her own.

3.

When Brenda stepped out into the humid, misty morning, the last thing she expected – or wanted, she reminded herself – to see was a sweaty Sharon Raydor lounging on the hood of her car and sipping coffee from a paper cup. Dark eyes narrowed. "It's extremely presumptuous of you just to show up here," she parroted, hostile.

The brunette shrugged, but Brenda knew she wasn't as coolly insouciant as she would've appeared to anyone else. "I did phone. Repeatedly."

She had – four times on Sunday – which, truth be told, had given the deputy chief no small amount of satisfaction each time she'd pressed the "ignore call" button. "I don't particularly feel like talkin' to you."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

"And yet you just keep on callin', and now here you are," Brenda pointed out, marching over to the driver's door. "Which is odd, since you obviously didn't want to talk to me at any point during the past week. And if you've left a dent in my car, I'll be sendin' you a bill for havin' it hammered out."

"Naturally." Sharon slid to her sneaker-clad feet, revealing the pristine surface of the hood. Brenda thought she looked tired – not the kind of tired you got from running, but the kind of tired you got from not sleeping. Her eyes were faintly shadowed, her skin pale. "As enjoyable as this exchange is, I didn't come over here to discuss anything personal."

Brenda faltered as she inserted the key into the lock. "Oh no?"

"Only insofar as having someone try to kill you is personal."

The blonde's eyes flew to Sharon's. "Excuse me?"

Sharon instinctively stepped into Brenda's space, her voice dropping. "Who did you tell that you were staying at my house, Brenda? Did you tell your team? Chief Pope? Commander Taylor?" Sharon's eyes widened slightly, communicating her intensity. "It hasn't occurred to you that the timing of this was a little too coincidental, coming on the heels of the break-in here and the mugging?"

The deputy chief reeled back as if the older woman had slapped her and then recovered herself. "I'm surprised at you, captain," she retorted, her sharp jaw tightening. "I don't know who your source is, but your information's outta date. We've confirmed the identity of the shooter. He wasn't after me."

Dark eyebrows rose. "How do you know?" Sharon demanded urgently, her voice lowering still further.

Brenda's eyes glinted. "You remember Officer Jason Donovan?"

"Jason Don -?" Sharon blinked. "Of course. He was an undercover cop on the drug squad, which gave him an excellent cover for the heroin ring he was running. He did a deal with the DA, went away for –"

"Five years. Yeah." Despite herself, Brenda felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. "Well, he's out now. Time off for good behavior."

"Oh." Sharon blinked again, frowning.

"So see, instead of me, you ought to be worryin' about yourself. Not that I'm not touched by your concern." Brenda didn't sound as flippant as she'd intended. She _was_ touched that Sharon cared about her – she was just mad as hell that she didn't care enough to want to be with her.

"Listen, we're gonna get him. Just be careful, okay?"

Sharon nodded, frowning even more intensely.

"How did you get here, anyway? Did you run?" The captain nodded again. "That must be, what -?"

"Far enough." Sharon shrugged. "I have plenty of time."

"I'll give you a ride home. You shouldn't be out runnin' by yourself if –"

"No," Sharon interrupted firmly. "If he really wants me dead, he'll find a way." She hesitated, as if considering saying more, but then just nodded again, definitively.

Brenda winced slightly. Sharon was right, but it wasn't what the deputy chief wanted to hear. She might want to kill Sharon herself, but she didn't want anyone else to have the satisfaction. "We'll get you a –"

"No. No protective detail. Brenda –"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Brenda Leigh –"

"If you're sure, I need to get to work."

Sharon stepped back, something flickering and then dying out behind her eyes. "I'm sure," she insisted, folding her arms.

"Okay. Well, uh – take care of yourself. Be careful."

"Yes, chief. You too."

Brenda didn't have to look in her rearview mirror to know that Sharon was still standing in her driveway, motionless, watching her until she drove out of sight.

4.

"You look like a man who could use a drink. Let me buy you one."

Sergeant Tim Elliott took in the trenchcoat-covered figure beside him on a stool at Malloy's polished mahogany bar and broke into a huge smile. "Sharon!" he exclaimed, and then flushed. He'd never dared utter his boss's first name before. "Uh, Captain Raydor, ma'am. Good to see you. I wasn't sure you were going to make it."

"Sharon will do for now, Tim. I apologize for being late, and I was serious about the drink." She inclined her head toward his beer. "Another?" At his nod, she addressed the bartender: "Brooklyn and an Eagle Rare. Make it a double. Neat."

Elliott waited until their drinks had been placed before them, a little of his beer sloshing over the side of the glass and making a small puddle on the bar. Raydor cast it a disapproving glance.

"I was going to call you about Donovan, but Lieutenant Flynn said Chief Johnson –"

Sharon tossed back a third of her drink and held up her hand. "Yeah, I know all about Donovan. Hardly a criminal mastermind, but a terrific marksman."

Elliott darkly contemplated the amber liquid for several seconds before beginning, "Are you suggesting he missed on purpose?"

"He wasn't trying to kill me or anyone else, Sergeant. Scare, maybe. But I don't scare easily."

Elliott considered and then smiled. "No, you don't. When are you coming back, boss?"

"Soon, Sergeant." Sharon sipped her drink. "Soon."

"We need you. And I don't have to tell you that no one in the division wants to work for Commander Taylor."

"I was right, then."

"It definitely looks that way. Scuttlebutt about reorganization is all over the department."

Sharon's lips pressed vehemently together and she muttered something that sounded a lot like "bastard." She permitted herself a small sip of her drink before saying, in her usual clear, low tone, "It's the police, not a popularity contest."

"I'll keep my ear to the ground, captain."

Sharon's lips quirked at the same expression the commander had used. Where would the LAPD be without its fecund interoffice grapevine? She nodded and tossed back the remains of her drink. "I'd appreciate that, Tim. Especially if you hear anything else about Donovan." A small but genuine smile curved her lips as she placed a few bills on the bar and quickly rebuttoned her coat. Maybe no one else would believe it, but Raydor was aware that her own people liked her; they knew she was tough but fair. She missed her work; she missed her team. She sure as hell wasn't going to let Russell Taylor take either of them away from her. "Enjoy your evening, Sergeant."

"You too, captain."

She nodded. "I plan to."

5.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hi, honey." Sharon stretched up on her toes to hug Jonathan before sliding into the booth across from him. "Sorry I'm late; I had to meet someone. Did you already order?"

He nodded, brushing a lock of dark auburn hair out of his eye. "The usual. That okay?"

"With extra olives?"

"Of course."

She smiled brightly. "Then of course it's okay."

Her son nudged the glass of house red he'd ordered for her, as he did almost every week, across the table. "Call Claire," he said flatly. "She's worried about you."

"I'm fine. Don't I appear to be fine?"

John grinned and sipped his beer. "You look fine," he agreed. "Better than the last time I saw you."

His mother snorted.

"And you've got to quit telling your friends I'm a drug dealer."

"You, your shady roommate –"

"Mom, he's chief resident at the hospital."

"I don't give a shit if he's the pope."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "And how's work?"

"Fine," Sharon returned evenly. There were some things her children didn't need to know. These days there were a lot of things her children didn't need to know.

"I wish you'd just say you're not going to tell me."

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Here's to that." He lifted his drink in a toast.

"Johnny –"

"_Mommy_."

"Jonathan. Will Rebekah be at your father's for Christmas?"

"As far as I know. The terrible trio, reunited. You could call her too, you know."

Mother and son made eye contact for several beats of silence.

"You going out to Park City to see Grandpa?"

"I haven't decided yet what I'm doing. There are a few work-related matters that I –"

"There's more to life than work," he cut in.

"Says the medical student. When was the last time you slept?"

"I'm serious, Mom. What about Brenda? Are the two of you –"

"Come on, Jonathan. I expect this from Claire, but not from you." Sharon drank deeply from her wine. She was going to need another glass if her son had decided to go all Dr. Ruth on her.

"Yeah, okay. Admittedly this is more her bag than mine, and I'm slightly uncomfortable at the moment, so just bear with me." They both leaned back as a smiling server whisked their pizza onto the table between them. "And then we can enjoy our dinner in peace, okay? I'll even let you douse the whole pie in chili oil."

Resigned, Sharon gestured for him to continue. Johnny leaned forward again. With the gentle light in his serious eyes and his dark hair tumbling across his forehead, he looked uncannily like the shy young economics student Sharon Raydor had fallen in love with thirty years earlier.

"Look, Mom, all I'm saying is that you deserve someone who loves you and makes you happy, okay?"

"That's my line to you, honey. I'm the parent."

"Doesn't make it any less true," Jonathan insisted stubbornly, scooping up a slice of pizza and transferring it to his mother's waiting plate. "You've been by yourself for a long time – and how long has it been since you dated someone you were actually serious about?"

Sharon snorted derisively. "And the ten minutes in total you've spent with Brenda Leigh Johnson have convinced you that she's that person, hmm?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes as Sharon defiantly dumped a generous amount of spicy chili oil onto the remainder of the pizza. "No, I didn't say that," he pointed out, patiently logical. His dark eyes locked with his mother's lighter ones. "What I'm saying is that there's something about this woman that compelled you to get involved with her in, uh, objectionable circumstances – to do something I never thought you'd do."

Sharon winced, but her son didn't look particularly judgmental. She reminded herself that he wasn't a carbon copy of his father after all. He just looked concerned. Reaching across the table, he lightly, briefly, touched his mother's hand where it rested on the table. "What is it," he asked seriously, "that makes _you_ so sure she's _not_ the one?"

6.

"Dining alone, chief?"

Will Pope froze in the act of squeezing his lemon one-handed into his sparkling water while using the other to scroll through myriad "urgent" emails on his Blackberry. His eyes flickered up to an expanse of charcoal gray Armani, and followed the supple lines of the fine wool encasing the form beneath up to a polite but supercilious smile and keenly intelligent green eyes. "Sharon," he blurted out, summoning a smile. "Captain Raydor. Ah, please join me."

"Thank you, chief." Manicured nails released their grip on the chair opposite his. "I will."

"Fancy meeting you here."

Raydor's raised brow was equally as facetious as Will's tone. "Indeed. But a … fortuitous coincidence, since I do need to speak with you."

Pope signaled to a server. "After we order. I'll have my usual," he said to the young woman, whose blonde ponytail bobbed as she nodded.

"I'll have the same."

Will looked surprised. "You don't even know what it is."

"I imagine it's some sort of salad. You're watching your weight."

Will felt the tips of his ears turn pink. "Grilled chicken on arugula with walnuts, pear, and shaved parmesan."

The captain smiled affably. "Lovely."

When the young woman had moved away, Will looked expectantly at his unexpected companion.

"I won't waste your time, chief. Either reinstate me as of next week or give me early retirement with double the usual severance package, all my unused vacation time, my full pension, and a good service bonus."

Pope's eyebrows flew up toward what used to be his hairline. "What exactly makes you think you're in a position to wheel and deal here, captain?"

Raydor did the most annoying thing she could possibly have done under the circumstances: she smiled. "The fact that I've been the object of a completely gratuitous, three-month IA investigation that, oddly, has not involved anyone actually assigned to IA. The fact that said investigation has expended God only knows how much of the taxpayers' money without reaching any conclusion, despite what would seem to be the open-and-shut nature of the incident. The fact that the city, the entire department, and you as an individual are facing a multi-million-dollar lawsuit based on Chief Johnson's purported conduct and that in my absence, as far as I've been able to ascertain, no one is doing anything about it, because it's my job and you can't afford anyone to replace me while you're still playing my full salary so that I can hone my Sudoku skills and go for long training runs – and that's assuming you could even find anyone else both qualified and willing to take on the Chief Johnson matter at this late stage of the game, which, Chief, I _highly_ doubt."

Pope's lips thinned. "You're not irreplaceable, Captain Raydor."

Now she raised her own eyebrows, her smile widening fatuously. "I never said I was. No one is irreplaceable, which you well know as acting chief. By the way, any word on when the mayor's planning to make a permanent appointment?"

Will looked from her guileless gaze down to his Perrier. He longed to throw the bottle's contents in Sharon Raydor's face. She'd found out, then, that he was to be passed over yet again.

"It's in the best interest of the department," she continued, not dropping the smile, "as well as your best interest personally, to resolve this matter as quickly and inexpensively as possible. You need me in order to do that."

Pope didn't argue. They both knew she was right, and that she held the winning hand. Letting Russell Taylor handle Raydor's OIS investigation had turned into a colossal mistake, and the longer it had gone on, the more embarrassing it would've been for Will to put a stop to it.

"Commander Taylor feels that there are major structural problems with the internal organization of IA," Will parried.

Something glimmered in Raydor's eyes. "Does he," she returned with no hint of a question. "How interesting. Let me guess: he 'feels' that FID should be dissolved, and that a new head should be appointed for a more centralized Internal Affairs division – someone with a rank higher than captain? Say, commander?"

Chief Pope winced. He was going to kill Russell Taylor. He'd strangle him with one of his own neckties. When the captain said it all out loud that way, it sounded as if Pope had allowed Taylor to waste months of time and money on a petty attempt to advance his own career – something that could instead tank both their careers if Raydor spun it the right way. "Which member of your division shared that confidential information with you, Captain Raydor?"

A muscle in Sharon's jaw twitched as she leaned back to make ample room for the salad the server was placing before her. "Oh, a little birdie. The LAPD seems to have a lot of those these days."

Raydor took a neat, precise bite of her salad, chewed slowly and thoughtfully while Will mentally chewed nails, and finally swallowed, every movement carefully measured. "And then there's the fact that I believe someone has put out a hit on Deputy Chief Johnson." Sharon sipped her water and then smiled again, even more brightly than before. "It wasn't you, was it, chief?"


	24. Chapter 24

_Author's note: Christmas is either coming really early this year, or really late last year, depending on your point of view. This is the penultimate chapter of B&B, and I want to thank everyone who has hung in there during this longer-than-anticipated journey. We've almost come to the end of the road. I hope you'll think it's worth your while. If you have any special requests for the last chapter, drop me a line - I aim to please._

Chapter Twenty-Four: I'll Be Seeing You

1.

Brenda Leigh Johnson had never lost the childlike joy and glee she'd always felt from the start of every holiday season. The first Christmas song on the radio, the first red-nosed reindeer lighting the dark Georgia night, the first glimpse of big department store bows and shiny tinsel made her eyes shine and her heart skip a beat. Fritz had never been able to wrap his head around the genuine enthusiasm with which she embraced her parents' yuletide visits, replete with tacky sweaters and Frosty the Snowman and enough food to feed an entire battalion of the Confederate Army or a roomful of hungry LAPD officers, whichever happened to turn up. To him it had seemed so unlike Brenda; but it wasn't at all, it was just a manifestation of the part of her he knew least – the part she'd tried to squeeze out of her deputy chief persona, with the result that it oozed out around the edges like the cream in a sandwich cookie. For Brenda, Clay and Willie Rae brought Christmas itself to Southern California.

Of course, this Christmas would be quite different.

"Chief?" Brenda jumped, startled, when Sanchez's hand landed on her upper arm, jarring her out of her contemplation of a tiny nativity scene on the mantel of their latest murder victim. "There's something in the kitchen I think you should see."

She nodded and signaled to Tao, her gaze still fastened on the Holy Family. "Bag this," she informed the bald lieutenant, sweeping her hand toward the collection of miniature figurines. "The third wise man's got blood on 'im."

Yes, this Christmas was going to be different.

2.

"Sharon?"

Green eyes snapped up from their appraisal of the warm oak tabletop and abstractedly returned to the face of her companion.

"I asked if you like the wine."

"It's good." Sharon managed a smile, but Kate wasn't fooled for a second.

"I propose a toast," the redhead said, and Sharon obligingly if spiritlessly lifted her glass. Kate bit back a sigh. The feeling she often got of being humored was one of her least favorite aspects of her former lover and present friend.

"To?" the captain prompted after a couple of beats.

Kate lifted her narrow shoulders in a small shrug. "I was going to say 'To the pleasure of your company' but you're light years away, so instead I propose 'The holidays.' L'chaim."

Sharon's lips curved into a more genuine, if guilty, smile as their glasses of Chablis clinked together.

"I still can't believe you didn't even _call_ me."

It was the refrain of the evening, and before answering Sharon dragged a chunk of focaccia through the olive oil in a small dish between them. "I'm fine, Kate. The only casualty was my sofa, which, as I recall, you never liked." Sharon rested her hand atop her friend's, ready to appease Kate and have done with this particular line of conversation once and for all. She was surprised to feel herself fight back a flinch at the contact. Had Kate's hands always been so cold? Brenda Leigh's were warm. "I told you he was only trying to scare me."

Kate shook her head. "Honestly, Sharon, I don't see why you don't go ahead and reti—"

"Do not use the R-word with me," the captain interrupted, scowling. She chewed another morsel of bread, her shoulders drooping. She felt Kate's eyes on her. "Besides," she admitted more softly, curling her hands into fists where they rested against the edge of the table, "it may be unnecessary. It's looking extremely likely that I've gotten myself fired."

The other woman's carefully shaped eyebrows shot toward her hairline. "Fired?" she exclaimed so loudly that the diners at the next table turned to look. "_You?_"

"Me." Sharon sipped her wine, pleased that Kate had remembered Chablis was her favorite white. But then, they'd ordered enough bottles of it to share.

"Is this about that scumbag you shot?"

The captain cocked her head and felt her hair slide over the angle of her jaw. "Mm, it would provide as good an excuse as they're ever likely to get," she replied, because there was really no discreet way to say "I accused the acting chief of police of plotting to kill my ex-lover (and his)." She'd heard nothing from Pope or Taylor over the course of the past four days, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to convince herself that no news was good news.

A waiter delivered their antipasti and Sharon picked up her fork to take a delicate bite of white Tuscan beans and fennel sausage. Kate eyed her for another moment.

"Be it noted," she said with grim humor as she picked up her own fork, "that I am choosing not to pry and instead to change the subject. I expect a gold star in the hereafter. What are your holiday plans? Park City as usual?"

"Oh." Jonathan had asked the same thing the previous week – with good reason, since it was already the 20th – and yet the question somehow came as a surprise. An unpleasant surprise. She gestured vaguely with her fork. "Oh, I suppose. The kids will be with David in New York. To tell the truth I haven't given it much thought. I'm not in much of a holiday mood this year."

Kate frowned, concerned. The Sharon she knew tended to bake up a storm and decorate everything in sight at Christmas. "Oh, hell. I'd invite you to spend it with me, but I'm taking Pam to Paris."

"Pam?" Sharon chewed thoughtfully. "You've been seeing her, what? A month?"

Kate grinned. "She doesn't hold a candle to you, Sharon Raydor. But the holiday is a good excuse for a vacation. – Maybe that's what you need."

The other woman snorted. "A vacation. Kate, I haven't worked in nearly three months."

"Exactly. Get away from it all. The stress, the empty house, your mother – Brenda."

"I don't want –"

"I know you don't want to talk about her. It's a good suggestion, Sharon. Barcelona, maybe? Or somewhere warm. Go to South America. Ride horses or lounge on a beach. Have sex."

But sex had caused Sharon enough problems recently; she was thinking about architecture. "Barcelona," she mused, thinking of unfinished cathedrals and a musical, lilting language. "I was there thirty-five years ago, just for a weekend. It was beautiful."

Kate's lovely straight teeth beamed at her friend. "You should do it. Not being at work is not the same thing as taking a vacation. Promise me you'll at least think about it. You have the time and the money. You could go anywhere you wanted."

Anywhere she wanted, except back to work or into Brenda Leigh's bed.

The captain polished off the rest of her glass of wine in one gulp. "I'll think about it," she reassured Kate, her eyes already far away. "I certainly will."

3.

Sharon had decided to give herself a Christmas present.

It wasn't neatly wrapped under the Christmas tree (she hadn't put up a tree this year, much to Claire's chagrin) with a big red bow and a gift tag from Santa. It wasn't really anything tangible at all. It was walking through her silent house, doing a last-minute check to make sure the windows were locked and the appliances unplugged, even though she already knew they were. It was throwing her Louis Vuitton suitcase into the trunk of her car, smoothing the loose tunic she wore over her faded jeans, and driving away without a backward glance. It was the open road stretching before her.

She had decided she didn't need exotic climes or horses or cabana boys (or girls). But Kate had been right: she needed a vacation.

She didn't need Park City with her family gathered around her, too many of them in the small space of her father's timeshare. She didn't need the beach house in Santa Cruz with too many memories. What she needed was a change, somewhere different, somewhere she could just be herself, not anyone's mother or daughter or friend or lover. Just herself. Just Sharon. Just a woman.

Sharon was fairly certain she had hurt Claire's feelings when her daughter, curled up next to her on the brand new sofa two nights before as they demolished a large pepperoni pizza and watched the opening credits of _Hello Dolly_ roll across the flat screen, had casually broached the subject of remaining in California with her mother instead of flying out to New York the next morning, and Sharon had immediately and certainly replied, "No, I want you to go." Claire had studied her with her big serious eyes, and Sharon had known her youngest child was worried about her, but she hadn't been able to provide an explanation, not really. All she'd been able to say was, "I need some time by myself, to think. I promise I'll be fine, baby."

Time by herself. To think.

That was what she needed, wasn't it? To be away from the constraints of her daily life, a life that had paradoxically seemed both stagnant and chaotic during the last few months, and think about what she really wanted, really needed, and how to go about moving forward?

Sharon allowed herself a small smirk. Wandering off into the desert to meditate for three or four or five days – how very un-Captain Raydor.

Sharon loved the desert the way she loved the mountains and the sea. Brenda's assessment had been fair after all, she acknowledged: she was a true California girl at heart.

_Brenda_. Her heart gave a hard, shuddering throb, and Sharon sighed, aware that she could no longer pretend she was too logical or too aloof or plain just too old to experience the deeps and shallows of romantic love. She was driving off into the desert to spend three or four or five days thinking about Brenda Leigh Johnson; that was what it boiled down to.

It didn't help that she was worried about the younger woman's safety, truly worried. Jason Donovan or no, something was rotten in Denmark, and the captain remained convinced it had much more to do with the deputy chief than it did with her. She was even becoming increasingly convinced that someone wanted to get a certain annoyingly persistent FID captain out of the way so that he (or she) could have easier access to Brenda. There had been too many coincidences, and at the risk of being branded as a conspiracy theory nut, Sharon couldn't see any way to convince herself that all those coincidences didn't require the involvement of someone inside the LAPD – someone fairly powerful.

She didn't think it was Pope, not really.

She hoped to Christ it wasn't Pope, because if it was, she was well and truly screwed, and so was Brenda Leigh, who _would_ persist in trusting the man despite any and all evidence that he was a self-interested, back-stabbing little prick, not that Sharon would actually say as much about her boss.

She frowned at the highway in front of her. Taylor? Despite her total lack of confidence in the man, it seemed a bit extreme to cast him in the role of murderer. Although no one had actually tried to _kill_ Brenda. Or Sharon, for that matter. Taylor as a shadowy shot-caller, moving behind the scenes and getting others to do his dirty work? That was more believable, but still…

She considered the possibility that she was just hacked off because the man kept trying to take her job.

In that moment Sharon decided she didn't care that it was Christmas. When she reached her destination, she was going to call Will Pope and inform him that Santa Claus was bringing her reinstatement as the head of FID, because she had been a very good girl. Then at least she'd be around to keep an eye on Brenda during the day.

Of course that did nothing to solve her other problem, which was that keeping an eye on Brenda wasn't what she really wanted to be doing. She just… wanted her, full stop.

Her heart did that unpleasant thumping thing again, and she winced as she changed lanes.

She wanted to be with Brenda Leigh.

And Brenda Leigh had said she wanted to be with Sharon too.

Sharon had convinced herself Brenda was reckless, delusional – naïve, even. Because things didn't happen like that; people's lives didn't work like that.

Except when they did.

Sharon's palms tingled, and she felt that same uncomfortable sensation she'd felt standing in a perfectly nice apartment talking about southern exposure and hearing Brenda say, "I want you to like it," and this time Sharon Raydor looked that sensation head-on and acknowledged it for what it was: fear. Pure, complete, blind fear. Because she wanted Brenda Leigh Johnson more than she had let herself want anyone or anything in a very long time, perhaps ever, and there was every chance that their complicated, frustrating relationship wouldn't work out and Sharon would end up broken in ways she couldn't even begin to contemplate.

Brenda's smile, Brenda's laugh, Brenda's pointy little chin and perfect breasts and petulant scowl all flashed across Sharon's vision like a cinematic reel, and she pounded her palm so hard on the top of her steering wheel that the ache reverberated all the way up her arm.

"Have you told her?" Claire had asked softly over hot chocolate and the remains of the pizza, and Sharon had scowled at her child's audacity. The follow-up question had been even worse: "Why not?"

There were a thousand reasons why not; Sharon could have listed them off the top of her head.

And there was probably only one reason why she should. Because it was real and it was true, and Brenda should know how Sharon felt.

Sharon looked up at the sky, a pure soft blue hiding behind the layer of smog, as if afraid the contact might hurt it. Only a coward would think it was better to hide and avoid the risk of loving and still failing, and while the captain was many things, she was pretty sure she'd never been a coward. Whether or not she managed to shame Will Pope into giving her back her job, there was only one real course of action she could follow if she wanted to move forward. She had to go to Brenda and tell her that she loved her and that she was terrified by it. Saying it aloud might even make it a little less scary, although Sharon remained dubious.

The traffic slowed, and Sharon shifted in the driver's seat, impatient. Her gaze fell upon the random exit sign looming ahead of her. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she swung the wheel and stomped the accelerator, lurching into the turn lane. After months of uncertainty, Sharon saw what she needed to do with absolute clarity, and she didn't need to go meditate in the desert like some half-insane prophet before she just ripped the damn band-aid off and did it.

4.

She'd waited as long as she possibly could before driving to the airport. She had lingered in her brand-new, half-furnished apartment, poking at unpacked boxes, sniffing the freshly applied paint, throwing out anything in the fridge that might spoil while she was gone, even the half gallon of skim milk that had an expiration date of January 2nd. Before that she'd similarly haunted the murder room, carefully erasing the murder board, making sure all the caps on the magic erase markers were sealed tightly, stacking random papers into perfectly neat, meaningless stacks on her desk. She'd felt Provenza and Sanchez staring at her while trying to pretend they were oblivious to her actions.

Brenda Leigh couldn't explain her dawdling. Her childhood home waited, complete with baked ham and squash casserole and sour cream coconut cake for dessert. Her youngest brother would be there with his wife and their toddler daughter, and there would be aunts and uncles and cousins galore. Mama and Daddy had promised her that everyone already knew not to ask any awkward questions about Fritz, and she was seasoned enough to ignore the odd pitying or disapproving glance.

Brenda had always heard about dysfunctional families, and she had no doubt they existed and plenty of people were stuck in them, but she had always liked her own family just fine. She liked going home to Atlanta, too, even if somehow she hardly ever found the time to make the trip. Spending the holiday surrounded by all her relatives would be good. It would be wonderful and warm and comforting, the seasonal equivalent of crawling back into the womb, but with better food.

Perhaps that was the problem, she mused as the cabin lights were dimmed for take-off. If the last few topsy-turvy months had taught her anything, it was that she wanted to go forward, not back.

That, and the way her thoughts kept straying from visions of her family gathered around her parents' dining room table to imagine a solitary, elegant figure standing at a granite-topped kitchen counter making green tea.

It wasn't that she felt sorry for the Sharon she remembered-slash-imagined. Rather, she envied her. Or, no, that wasn't right either. Coveted. Coveted was better.

_Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife or his ass_. That one had always made Brenda Leigh giggle.

She wanted Sharon Raydor, as much as – more than – she had ever wanted her before. Somehow it was easier to admit that here on a 757 with the cabin doors already closed, insulated with this random assemblage of people headed for the East Coast, as if she could already look down from a great height at her own life with the luxury of analytical distance. Her pride stung from the way Sharon had rejected her, trivialized what she felt, but she knew the older woman wanted her too – she _knew_ it.

She also knew Sharon was scared, which was really saying something, now that she thought about it. Sharon hadn't been scared when she'd had to shoot a man. Sharon hadn't been scared when Jason Donovan had opened fire on her house like it was a free-for-all at the shooting range. Sharon wasn't scared of the scorn of her colleagues, or big fat spiders, or the way Brenda looked with no make-up on. Sharon wasn't scared of _anything_.

Except this thing between them. That was pretty damn powerful.

Brenda's small frame pressed back into her smaller seat as the aircraft lifted from the ground, and she felt a tight, tingling sensation akin to panic in her chest. _Go back_, she suddenly wanted to cry_. Go back!_ She needed to be back on the ground, back in Los Angeles, back with Sharon.

Now that it was completely beyond her control, Brenda Leigh saw it all clearly, which was fairly typical, wasn't it?

They reached cruising altitude, the pilot turned off the fasten-seatbelts sign, and a flight attendant served Brenda tasteless coffee, and with each moment Brenda's conviction grew. This was wrong. This was not what she needed to be doing.

She'd been so angry with Sharon, furious at her, for not trusting her, not believing in the reality of her love and her commitment – but had she ever _told_ Sharon she loved her? Had she ever told Sharon she wanted to be with her, _stay_ with her?

Brenda Leigh stared at her little packet of Delta Airlines pretzels, feeling like a prize idiot.

She and Sharon were alike in so many ways, strong-willed, intelligent, relentless, unconventional – but in this they were complete opposites. Where she was impulsive, Sharon was cautious, wary. Was it any wonder that the woman needed a little reassurance?

Brenda spent most of the long flight gnawing on her lip, fighting an internal battle with herself. Part of her worried that she was being a little ridiculous, overly dramatic, acting like a character in some sappy romantic movie (something from the forties, with women who wore red matte lipstick and silk stockings), and that if she turned up on Sharon Raydor's doorstep, the other woman would give her that cold, penetrating Captain Raydor stare and send her on her way.

By the time her flight landed, Brenda had decided that while a grand, impulsive gesture might not win Sharon over, sweep her off her feet and mean the two of them would live happily ever after, Brenda needed to make it, for her own sanity if for nothing else. She would go crazy if she had to wait a week to see the brunette captain again. She would die of impatience.

After she had disembarked and collected her suitcase, instead of picking up her rental car, Brenda made a phone call, and forty-five minutes later Willie Rae was there, a slim figure in a long camel-colored coat.

Brenda lifted one hand in a silly little wave, unable to help herself. Willie Rae simply surveyed her daughter from head to foot, nodded, and asked, "When's your flight back, honey?"

"Hi, Mama." Brenda smiled tremulously, suddenly surprisingly close to tears. "Everything's full, so I'm flyin' standby."

"Well, I was going to offer to take you to lunch, at least, but I suppose you won't want to leave the airport."

"We could get some coffee instead." Brenda gestured toward the Starbucks kiosk over her mother's shoulder.

"I have my two cups with breakfast every mornin', Brenda Leigh, but it's fine if you want some."

"No, I probably don't need any more," Brenda admitted shakily, absently smoothing her skirt the same way she always did when she was a little girl facing a scolding. "I'm sorry I ruined Christmas, Mama," she blurted.

Willie Rae smiled slightly even as she raised her eyebrows. "Don't be foolish, Brenda Leigh. Your father and I will have a perfectly lovely day with your brother and his family," she pointed out, gently reminding the deputy chief that she wasn't the center of the universe, not even the center of the Johnson family solar system. "What I want to know is what you are gonna be up to. It's not work." Brenda shook her head. "Is it about Fritz?"

"No, Mama." Brenda looked over at a cluster of unoccupied chairs near one of the automatic trash cans that had ceased being automatic not long after their 1996 pre-Olympics installation. "Let's sit down."

As the two women settled next to one another in the rigid plastic chairs, harried travelers swirling around them, children crying, luggage wheels squeaking, the forty-seven-year-old deputy chief didn't know what she was going to tell her mother. She always had a plan going into an interrogation, but this time the roles were likely to be reversed.

"Mama, you need to understand that Fritz and I aren't ever gettin' back together."

"Oh, honey," Willie Rae put in instantly, her face alight with sympathy, "it's barely been a month. Sometimes these things just take ti—"

"No. It's my fault – mostly my fault. I – I'm in love with somebody else."

Even as she spoke the words and her heart leaped with panic, there was a faint undercurrent of relief at admitting it to someone. She'd finally said it aloud. She, Brenda Leigh Johnson, was in love with Sharon Raydor. It was as if now that the words had been said, the universe would be forced to acknowledge them.

She gave her mother a second to chew on that before bursting out, "I can't even be sorry about fallin' in love, because that's what it took to make me see that I didn't love Fritz the way a wife – the way you're supposed to love the person you're married to. Not like you and Daddy love each other."

Brenda's throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, too afraid of censure to look her mother in the face, so she studied Willie Rae's hands instead. They were almost as expressive as her face: thin and blue-veined, work-roughened in a way that would never diminish their natural elegance. They twisted together briefly as the older woman's right hand smoothed over her own wedding ring.

"Mama," Brenda Leigh whispered desperately, because she had basically just admitted to her devout mother that she'd broken her vows and had an affair; she hadn't said it in so many words, but her mother was far from stupid, and now her cheeks were scalding with shame and embarrassment. "Say somethin'."

"What do you want me to say?" Willie Rae returned in the sharp, matter-of-fact tone that always made her husband and her children stand up a little straighter. "I can't say I approve."

"I know," Brenda said, still whispering. "I know. I'm awful, and you and Daddy must be so disappointed. You must hate me." She bit her lip, unable to stop the two tears that escaped from beneath her eyelids. She knew she sounded like a melodramatic child, but she was, at least, determined to keep herself from blubbering.

"You stop that," her mother returned even more sharply. "Tears never fixed anything, and you know perfectly well that your father and I could never hate you, even when we're mad. Even if we are disappointed."

"You _are_ disappointed." Willie Rae nodded. "In me or for me?"

Her mother shrugged, a fatigued lift of shoulders bearing many decades of life experience. "Both, honey. You're my only daughter. And while I certainly believe in the sanctity of marriage, I don't think you'd be doin' Fritz any favors by stayin' married if you don't love him enough to keep from – from takin' up with somebody else. He deserves better."

Brenda winced. She knew what her mother was saying was not only true but mild, much kinder than she deserved. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths and remember that she was a middle-aged woman, a reasonably autonomous adult, not a child. She craved her parents' approval as she always had – although she knew that her odds of getting it this time were about as good as the odds that Clay would vote the straight Democratic ticket in the next election – but she knew what she needed to do regardless. She knew what she was _going_ to do.

"You haven't told me why you came all the way out here just to turn around and fly back across the country."

"Because I made a mess of things. I'm not very good at cleanin' up my messes, but I suppose it's way past time for me to learn."

Willie Rae tilted her head. "And this means you have to turn right back around and fly to Los Angeles now, today, on Christmas." Honestly, Brenda thought, her mother chose the most unexpected moments to come over all stoic and unruffled – she was a tiny little bit like Sharon that way.

"Yeah, Mama. I think it does."

"Here." A slightly crumpled Kleenex appeared in Brenda's direct line of sight as she reached up to wipe her nose, and she took it, risking a quick glance at her mother's face. The lines, the planes, the fall of snow-white hair were all there, all the same and blessedly familiar.

Willie Rae stood up very gracefully for someone of her age. "You just come on home if you don't get a flight, Brenda. Make sure you get somethin' to eat before you get on the plane, and call us when you get there. You know we worry; it's our job."

As Brenda stood too and automatically leaned down to accept her mother's embrace, her eyes were wide with surprise. "You're leavin' already?"

Willie Rae smiled slightly. "Well, it is Christmas Day, honey. I have a ham to see to, and the sweet potato casserole needs to go in the oven shortly."

The sweet potato casserole: Sharon had made it last year. The marshmallows hadn't really been burned, the deputy chief acknowledged generously, just chewier than she preferred.

"What are you gonna tell Daddy?" Brenda asked anxiously, wondering if anybody ever felt like a grown-up when confronted by a stern-faced parent.

"That somethin' came up," Willie Rae replied briefly, adjusting the collar of her coat. "Merry Christmas, Brenda Leigh."

5.

"I think," said the voice on Brenda's voicemail, and then it paused. "I think I may have created a sticky stit – a sicky sit – a problem. A minor, ah, embarrassment. For you. Or perhaps not. I don't know. At any rate, I'm spending Christmas at the Holiday Inn. Isn't that just completely appropriate? At least the mini-bar is stocked. Was stocked. I didn't drink the tequila, though. Who drinks tequila out of a mini-bar? And they keep playing your song, Brenda Leigh. I – oh, hell. This isn't why I called. I just – I wish – _shit_. I am drunk."

Even completely bewildered, standing inside the main terminal building at LAX with her cell phone clapped against her ear, Brenda couldn't help the smile that flitted across her face at Sharon's precise, meticulous enunciation.

"All I'm accomplishing is embarrassing myself. I –" A hesitation; a ragged exhalation. "Bye, Brenda. Merry Christmas."

Her voice sounded small. Sharon Raydor never sounded small. She filled any room she entered with her confidence, her assurance, her damned Sharon-ness.

Still standing right there among the swirls and eddies of travelers, Brenda Leigh dialed Sharon's number from memory. (When, exactly, had she memorized Sharon's number? Brenda didn't actually know anybody's phone number besides her parents', and they'd had the same one for thirty years.)

She listened as it rang and rang.

"Hello, you've reached Sharon Raydor. I'm not able to take your call right now, but –"

Brenda hung up. She didn't have the time or the patience to leave a message and wait for _that woman_ to decide to crawl out from underneath her hangover and call her back. Sharon obviously wasn't in Los Angeles, and she wasn't in Park City with her father and brother or up at the beach house if she was staying at a Holiday Inn somewhere. (_Oh, Sharon, where are you? Why aren't you here when I came all the way back out here to find you, damn it?)_

Brenda gnawed on her lip for a second before scrolling through her recent calls. Back, back, back – bingo.

At first Brenda didn't think she was going to answer, the phone rang so many times; but at the last possible second before the call went to voicemail, a breathless voice exclaimed, "Hello!"

The voice was achingly familiar in the way the speaker enunciated so precisely, even on that one simple word, but it was the wrong voice, and Brenda suddenly felt the weight of exhaustion and her solitary state and all the things she had messed up so horribly over the last few months.

Impatient now, Claire repeated, "Hello?" She sounded so much like her mother when she was impatient.

"Claire, it's Brenda." She allowed herself a small space to breathe, and then poured every ounce of Southern sweetness and honey she could muster into her question. "Do you know where your mama is?"

"At home." A beat. "Isn't she? We all talked to her this morning, but I called her on her cell. If she's not at home, Brenda, I'd think you'd know better than I would where she is, but –" There was muffled conversation as Claire turned away from the phone, obviously asking her brother if he knew the whereabouts of their mother. Brenda clearly heard his negative response.

Brenda sighed. "Thanks, Claire. Merry Christmas," she added half-heartedly.

Before the chief could hang up, that familiar-but-wrong voice softly replied, "Merry Christmas to you, Brenda Leigh. I hope you find my mom. We'll see you soon, yeah?"

Brenda hoped so too.

The deputy chief flopped down in one of the rigid chairs that, despite their designer's best efforts at modern contours and tasteful fabric choices, felt like nothing but gate-side airport chairs. They felt like waiting, and reminded the blonde that she had nowhere to go, no particular destination. She wanted to go to Sharon, but she couldn't _find_ Sharon.

"Dammit," she swore, dropping her elbows to her knees in defeat. _Sharon Raydor, where the hell are you?_ Brenda felt the humiliating sting of tears behind her eyelids, because she was exhausted and she missed Sharon, who was somewhere hurting and pounding down tiny bottles of overpriced hotel booze; because she wanted Sharon. She wanted to hold her and comfort her, give the apologies Sharon didn't want but needed to hear nonetheless; assure her that she understood, even if she didn't, not completely, but she was trying. She just wanted to look into her eyes, hear her voice live and in person, touch her hand. The tears kept rising, because she had put that grave, determined look on her mama's face and because she had missed Christmas dinner. Because she had impulsively made a grand romantic gesture, possibly – probably – for the first time in her life, and the excitement and trepidation and sense of urgent importance she'd felt since making that decision was ebbing away into nothingness, with no one to appreciate it. She acknowledged that a measure of the feeling was self-centered – Brenda wanted to be romantic this one time, god damn it (and never mind what her mama would think of her language) – but only a measure. She wanted to do this for Sharon.

But that woman was thwarting her again.

Her phone vibrated, and for an instant Brenda was elated with giddy hope, until her parents' photo appeared on the screen.

No. No, she just couldn't.

She also couldn't just sit here in the airport all day. She might as well go home; it wasn't like she had anywhere else to go.

As she slid into the backseat of a cab (the airport's prices for long-term parking were extortionate), her phone vibrated again. Her mother had left a message. With a dutiful sigh, Brenda lifted the small hunk of plastic to her ear and pressed the appropriate button.

Willie Rae's voice filled her ear. "Brenda Leigh, it's your mother, just checkin' in to see that you made it home okay. I know you've had a long day and you must be worn out, so if you don't feel like talkin', you can just send one of those word messages –"

(In the background Clay interrupted, "Text messages, Willie Rae; they're called _text _messages.")

"Whatever, Clay. – Oh, by the way, your daddy and I had the nicest surprise a little while ago. Your friend Sharon dropped by to say hello. She's such a lovely girl – well, woman, I should say. You didn't even tell us she was in town, honey. She said she'd come to visit a friend because her children are with their daddy this Christmas. I invited her to stay for supper, but she had plans."

Brenda stopped listening, frozen with shock. _Sharon_. Sharon had been at her parents' house. Sharon was in Atlanta.

Sharon had gone to her, for her.

Rational, practical Sharon had paid the Lord only knew how much for a last-minute ticket and flown across the breadth of the continental United States to go to Brenda – while Brenda was doing exactly the same thing in reverse. Things like this didn't happen in real life.

Real life. Brenda's lips quirked slightly as she remembered Sharon's angry insistence: "_This is real life… There's no fade to black_." Yes, this was real life; but maybe sometimes real life was allowed to be like the movies. Maybe no one got a happy ending. Brenda Leigh would settle for a happy right now.

Romantic gestures were great and all, but now the two of them were again at opposite ends of the country, which was terrible.

And Sharon wanted to see Brenda, which was wonderful. Her heart leaped, thudded, skittered in her chest, as off balance as the rest of her, and Brenda sucked in great lungsful of the stale, cool air recirculating in the cab's interior.

Once she'd caught her breath, she burst into laughter, the sound loud and shrill in her own ears. Only when she felt the startling scald of hot moisture on her cheeks did she realize she'd also burst into tears.

When the bedside phone began to ring for the third time in as many minutes, Sharon reached out, tentatively curling her palm around the cool plastic receiver. It wasn't a wrong number. It wasn't a prank call. It was Brenda. Sharon knew it as surely as she knew she was going to have a bitchin' headache the next morning.

So why wasn't she answering? She wanted to talk to Brenda – had flown across the country to talk to Brenda. But it wasn't supposed to go like this. It was supposed to be face to face, with Sharon looking her carefully groomed best. She was supposed to have all her faculties about her and be able to recall the little speech she'd prepared, going so far as to write it out on the long flight from LAX.

The phone stopped ringing, and instead of feeling relieved, Sharon felt her heart plummet.

No less than ten seconds later it rang again, and said heart leapt into the captain's mouth, tattooing wildly. _Oh, for heaven's sake._

She lifted the receiver but couldn't bring herself to speak.

"Finally!" Brenda exclaimed, exasperated; and then, when the silence continued, "Sharon?"

"Yes." Was that her voice, that breathy little exhalation? _Fuck_.

"Are you okay?"

The drawl was so tender, so alive with concern, that Sharon's rigid muscles melted and she slumped back against the mound of hotel pillows. "Yes," she managed. "Yes, I think so."

They were both quiet, listening to the barely audible susurrations of one another breathing.

"That's good," Brenda said quietly, sounding shy. "So – Atlanta?"

Green eyes roved around the characterless hotel room. "Atlanta," she confirmed.

"My parents seem to be under the impression that you have family there." Brenda cleared her throat. "You got another child you haven't mentioned? Sibling? Cousin?"

"Of course not," the older woman murmured faintly, her newly unpredictable heart doing that unpleasant thing in her mouth again.

The pause was a long one.

"I – I'm glad."

More silence. Why couldn't she _talk_? Sharon wondered frantically, and the more frantic she became, the harder it got to contemplate opening her mouth and making words come out.

"You – Did you come to see me?"

"You know I did." Her husky voice had a trifling little catch in it. Sharon felt as if she might burst open, everything was so close to the surface of her skin and it was such a flimsy barrier.

"No, I… I know that was what I wanted you to say."

"I came to see you." Sharon felt hot all over, hot and trembly, and was terrified to think she might actually cry.

"Why?" Brenda Leigh's voice was so small that Sharon could barely hear it despite the fact that every nerve in her body was straining toward the sound.

"To apologize." All right, that was only the partial truth, but she couldn't just blurt out "Because I love you" on the telephone after she'd had too much to drink. Again.

(For the last time, she promised herself. It never helped; it only made things worse. She didn't need a bottle, she needed Brenda.)

Sharon looked down at her own hand, which was twisting in the comforter. "To be with you. To hold you, if you'll let me. To make love to you."

Brenda's voice trembled. "Oh, Sharon, I'll let you. Of course I will." She chuckled weakly. "Do you know where I am?"

A little startled by the change of subject, Sharon sat up a little straighter against the pillows. "Your father said you had to go back to work."

"That's what Mama said she'd tell him."

"Brenda?"

"I came back to find you. I was gonna go to Park City or your beach house or wherever –"

"_Brenda_."

"We must've passed each other in the air. I never dreamed you'd do something like that. It doesn't happen in real life, does it? Only in the movies."

"This is ridiculous." Sharon thought she needed a drink – water, or maybe a soda. Something rich and sweet and fizzy on her tongue, since she couldn't have Brenda Leigh.

"I miss you so much."

"I'm coming back tomorrow." Sharon gazed at the ceiling. She'd be home tomorrow – and then what? "Brenda, can we start over?"

"No."

The response came so swiftly that it took Sharon's breath, leaving her as stunned as a punch to the gut.

"Sharon, this thing between us – it's been happenin' for two years. I don't want to erase a minute of it."

The captain's chest contracted painfully and then, as if something had finally ruptured, she was able to breathe again. "Not even when you called me a bitch?"

"Which time?" the chief retorted, and Sharon felt her trembling lips curve into a smile.

"You know, when you want to, you do self-aware really well."

"You kept tellin' me I needed to think," Brenda replied solemnly. "I want to make sure you know I have."

"I have too."

"You think too much."

"I do. I always have, and I always will." She drew a shaky breath. "The way you jump in with both feet – it terrifies me. I sit back on the edge and watch. I worry. I think about what's going to happen to me when you change your mind and jump out again –"

"No," Brenda insisted, her voice faint but firm. "No, Sharon, that's what I –"

"I know. I know now. Sometimes I just need to feel."

"Feel _me_," Brenda encouraged.

"Yes." It was a plea, a promise. "Be a little patient with me, Brenda Leigh. It's been a long, long time since I let myself feel like this."

"Are you cryin'?"

"No," Sharon replied immediately, although she was, and she knew that Brenda knew she was. Brenda knew her better than the older woman had ever wanted to admit. "I – I think I should probably get some sleep."

"Take some Tylenol or somethin' first," Brenda instructed, sparing a worry over how much Sharon had been drinking, and wondering if that was a conversation they needed to have. Not tonight, she decided. "I don't want you feelin' bad tomorrow. I've got plans for you. What time does your flight get in?"

Sharon told her, and Brenda promised, "I'll meet you."

Sharon sniffled – allergies, of course. "My car is there."

"It doesn't matter," Brenda retorted firmly. "I'm not wastin' another single minute."


	25. Chapter 25

_**Last, final, this-is-really-the-end author's note:** Thank you so much to everyone who has accompanied me for all or part of this journey, whether by commenting, encouraging me, or, perhaps best of all, simply by reading. This story will always be really special to me, because while it may just be fanfic, it has become a record of the most eventful (craziest, most dramatic, epic, emotional, heart-wrenching, joy-filled) year of my life. In fact, this little story has quite literally changed my life. Who could ever have known? I'm grateful to all of you for sticking with me and B&B for so long, and not giving up hope during the months-long gaps between updates. I hope it will have been worth the ride, and I'll catch you on the flip side._

_And finally, this, along with everything else I write, is for my two most loyal readers and favorite ladies: ubiquitousmixie and helenvanpattersonpatton. _So if it sucks, blame them_, she concludes eloquently._

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Auld Lang Syne**

1.

Brenda was about thirty seconds away from deciding that fate was again thwarting her and Sharon had somehow missed the flight – Brenda knew she hadn't missed Sharon, because Brenda Leigh, who was never on time for anything, had arrived at LAX thirty-five minutes before the flight from Atlanta was even due to land – when a familiar figure finally appeared at the arrivals gate.

Her jaw dropped before she could recover herself and plaster on a startled smile. "Sergeant Gabriel!" she exclaimed, her eyes darting to the dark-haired woman just beyond his shoulder. "David."

He smiled easily, looking rather travel-worn. "Hey, chief."

"Hello, chief," Sharon echoed in that calm Captain Raydor tone of hers. Before Brenda had time to panic – How the hell could she explain her presence here to Gabriel, since Sharon had left her car in the long-term lot? Maybe she could get Sharon to pretend she needed a ride, and they could come back later and get the car – Sharon continued, "I told Gabriel you were meeting me to get your Christmas present from your aunt. It's just in my suitcase." She cocked her chin toward the small wheelie bag.

As stories went, it wasn't a very good one, but it was better than nothing. "Oh, Aunt Edna!" Brenda exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. She turned conspiratorially to Gabriel with a bright smile. "She always bakes me a cake. Double chocolate," she confided with such anticipation that Sharon looked duly impressed.

"Yes, well," the captain put in, rolling her eyes, "thrilled to be of service, as ever."

At the moment Gabriel looked too tired to question the thin story. At least he was acquainted with a few members of the eccentric Johnson clan. "You comin' back from Italy, David?"

He nodded. "Airline screwed up my itinerary. I had to connect through Atlanta."

"And we were on the same flight." Sharon flashed that wide, too-perfect smile. "What a coincidence."

"Well, um – since I'm here, I can give you both a ride back to your cars. Where'd you park?" Brenda continued rather desperately. Sharon's fake smile turned into a genuine smirk.

"Long-term three," she replied quietly. "I can take the shuttle."

The chief scowled at her. "Don't be silly," she snapped. "I'll drive you. My car's right outside." Sharon's smirk deepened, and Brenda wanted either to kiss her until she couldn't breathe or throttle her. "How 'bout you, David?"

"I took a cab, chief."

Brenda noted that Sharon finally looked a bit horrified herself, but it gave her little satisfaction. "Oh, well," she said faintly, "I can give you a ride home."

"Excuse me," Sharon murmured, and motioned vaguely toward the ladies' room. The deputy chief was beyond caring what her detective thought; her eyes longingly followed Sharon as the other woman walked away.

When Sharon emerged from a stall, the slim blonde was leaning against the row of sinks, her arms folded and a sly smile on her face. "Detective Gabriel's waitin' outside to say goodbye to you. He insisted on takin' a cab."

Sharon smiled almost shyly. "What about you, Brenda Leigh?" she asked, her voice soft. "What are you waiting for?"

Brenda bit her lip. "To say hello," she replied equally softly.

"And to get your fruitcake from Aunt Edna," Sharon reminded, moving closer.

"Chocolate, captain. Don't you know me at all?"

The older woman instinctively slipped her hands into her jeans pockets. "I know you better than Detective Gabriel does," she retorted in a low, smoky voice. "Or your Aunt Edna. Do you have an aunt Edna, by the way?"

"Of course I do. She's my daddy's older sister." Brenda stepped into Sharon and reached out to touch her elbow through the soft fabric of the casual navy blazer she wore over a white tank top that clung to her curves. "Are you tired?"

The captain glanced at her reflection in the mirror and scrunched her nose. "I look it, don't I?" The harsh, colorless fluorescent strip above highlighted every tiny line and crease in Sharon's pale skin; her eyes were shadowed with fatigue, and her mouth was drawn, probably with the throb of the dull headache she had to have after last night's over-indulgence.

"You are so beautiful," Brenda whispered, gripping both of Sharon's hands in hers, feeling the fine bones and delicate skin, like fine vellum. Her whole body flushed from the inside out with a rush of warmth. There was the carnal electricity that came from making contact with this woman, but this wasn't merely the hot rush of untrammeled desire she was used to feeling in her captain's presence; there was the simple, profound warmth of affection and appreciation and…

No, it would be best to save that thought for later.

"I look like shit," Sharon replied derisively, her voice thick, but her eyes glinted with warmth.

"You're gorgeous," Brenda reiterated, her grip tightening. "Especially right this minute. You're here and you're gorgeous and I can't _wait_ to get rid of Detective Gabriel."

Their eyes locked, the gaze lengthening.

"Sharon –"

The older woman gently wrested one of her hands away and pressed her fingertips to Brenda's lips. "Shh, not now. Not in the public bathroom at the _airport_, Brenda Leigh."

Brenda nodded. She was no happier than she had ever been to have to admit that the other woman was right; but she was right. They'd waited this long to say the things that needed to be said, deserved to be said. They could wait a little longer. This was not the place.

A stall door slammed, punctuating the thought, and the two women jerked away from one another as if they'd been caught in flagrante. Their eyes met in the mirror above the row of sinks, and Sharon's lips quirked into that insufferable smirk as she pumped soap into her palm.

"I am _so_ gonna get you," Brenda declared, and Sharon chuckled.

"I'm counting on it."

After they'd divested themselves of the detective sergeant, Brenda drove Sharon to the lot where she'd left her car only the day before. They were awkward together, a little stilted, as if they were afraid to say too much or to touch one another, afraid perhaps that they wouldn't be able to stop. Sharon ducked out of the car with a quick smile and a hasty "See you soon."

Suddenly Brenda was worried that she was going to lose the other woman before she'd really gotten her back again. "You're gonna come right over? You promise?"

Sharon took in the blonde's anxious expression and smiled softly. "I'll follow you." Reaching in through the open window, she squeezed the pale, thin hand resting atop the steering wheel. "Better yet, with the way you drive, I'll beat you there."

"Wait, wait." Brenda grabbed a handful of Sharon's jacket, preventing her from withdrawing, and tugged. "C'mere – please."

The angle was awkward but Brenda Leigh's lips were soft and ardent, and when the captain felt the first foray of her tongue, her knees trembled deliciously.

After a moment the taller woman pulled back and straightened her spine. "Someone will see," she cautioned.

"I don't care."

"I do." Sharon smiled as she took a step back. "What is it with you and cars, hmm?" she teased huskily. "I'll see you in a little while, and we can continue this reunion in a more suitable venue."

2.

Brenda didn't know how she managed it, but, true to her word, Sharon was parked in a visitor's space at the apartment complex, leisurely awaiting the deputy chief's arrival when Brenda pulled up. Clearly the blonde was going to have to develop a better relationship with her GPS.

She hoped Sharon wasn't dwelling on the fact that her only previous visit had been on the disastrous day when Brenda viewed the property, but knew that she probably was. They didn't speak as they crossed the parking lot together, but when the smaller woman tentatively caught Sharon's hand in hers, the captain squeezed warmly.

"So it looks a little different than it did the last time you were here. It's still a work in progress, but I cleaned it from top to bottom last night" – she hadn't been able to sleep – "so I hope you'll think it's okay," Brenda babbled, fumbling one-handed with her keys as she gripped Sharon's fingers with the other. "It's nowhere near as nice as your house, of course, but –"

Sharon's free hand cupped Brenda's jaw and angled her chin up so she could kiss her gently, almost chastely. "I didn't come over here to critique your interior decorating skills. Now open the door."

Blushing, Brenda did as she was told, and then beckoned the other woman inside. This wasn't how she'd imagined this moment – and since she'd talked to Sharon yesterday, she'd done little but imagine it (and get a contact high from Clorox fumes). Her mind had projected a cinematic reel of her engulfing Sharon in her arms and kissing her until neither of them could breathe, all protests lost in the tide of sensation. Instead she stood with her fingers linked in front of her, smiling shyly, while Sharon slipped her purse strap from her shoulder and gazed around.

"Julie was right," the captain said after a moment. "The afternoon sunlight is lovely."

Brenda nodded enthusiastically and wiped her palms on her jeans. "Can I get you somethin' to drink, maybe somethin' hot? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate –"

"Tea would be nice, thank you."

Brenda dumped her own purse onto a chair and headed into the kitchen, Sharon trailing her. "I thought I'd paint it yellow," the blonde said brightly, gesturing to the stark white walls. "I know it's not the most practical color for a kitchen, but I don't cook that much, and it'll be so cheerful, won't it?"

"I think that will look great," Sharon agreed in that same low tone, watching as Brenda filled an electric kettle that was exactly like the one in Sharon's kitchen. She waited until Brenda had sorted out mugs and tea bags, and then she stepped forward and lightly rested her hands on the blonde's angular hips. Brenda breathed out slowly as she answered the gesture, one arm going around Sharon's shoulders as they stepped into a hug.

"You're here," Brenda whispered, her breath stirring the wisps of hair at Sharon's ear. Sharon hummed and lightly stroked her back. "It's – It feels good havin' you here."

"It feels good being here, Brenda Leigh."

They stood there in one another's arms, just hugging, until the water had reached a rolling boil and the kettle clicked off. "Tea time," Sharon murmured, and softly kissed Brenda's cheek before she moved away just enough to lift the kettle and pour the steaming water over the tea bags. Brenda felt herself grinning like a fool, her mouth stretched impossibly wide.

"Go sit in the livin' room," she invited. "I'll be right there."

She kept smiling as she assembled a tray with a sliced apple, some green grapes, crackers, and a generous dollop of the cheese and pecan spread like her mama made every year for the holidays. Her fantasy had been all wrong. This was much better than feverish kisses and wild sex (not that those things lacked appeal). She'd imagined the desperate, heated encounter of lovers who never had enough time and had to devour every second – of two people having an affair. But she and Sharon could sit on her living room sofa, sipping their tea and eating their snack and talking if they felt like it, because they had time, the greatest luxury of all. They could just be together. They could be two people having a relationship.

She sat down close enough to Sharon that their knees brushed whenever one of them shifted, but not too close. They would be close later, their bodies pressed together skin to skin with nothing in the way. For now, she was content to look at Sharon, to talk to her, to watch the way her mouth moved as they shared slices of the pleasantly tart green apple.

"You're staring at me," Sharon murmured after several minutes, and Brenda realized with delight that her composed captain was blushing, just the faintest, becoming flush of rose.

Brenda laughed. "You're pretty," she returned simply, and Sharon rolled her eyes, but she laughed too, and Brenda Leigh figured she had the right to be a little silly and sappy because it was the day after Christmas and she still hadn't gotten to unwrap her present.

Sharon yawned, a delicate little yawn that she concealed behind her palm, but it snapped Brenda out of her reverie. "You must be exhausted. Do you want to rest for a while, take a nap? You could stretch out here, or have my bed –"

The captain shook her head. "What I would like, if you don't mind, is a shower."

Brenda was surprised when she felt herself shiver. She definitely did not mind. As many times as she had bathed in Sharon's home, this would be the first time Sharon had reciprocated, and Brenda found the idea incredibly appealing. It wasn't just the idea of a naked, wet, soapy Sharon, with its obvious appeal; but the idea of Sharon making herself at home in Brenda's newfound space in such an intimate way.

"Of course not." Brenda unfolded herself from the sofa and led the way into the small black and white tiled bathroom. Sharon leaned against the wall, looking appetizingly rumpled, watching while Brenda selected a fluffy green towel and adjusted the water temperature – things Sharon was perfectly capable of doing herself, but little gestures of caregiving that Brenda wanted to offer and Sharon was willing to accept. Her tired green eyes smiled at Brenda as the younger woman straightened up and turned back toward her, hands clasped awkwardly in front of her. "There's soap and shampoo – do you have everything you need?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Brenda to join her, but as inviting as that thought was, Sharon knew herself well enough to know that she wasn't yet ready to feel quite that vulnerable and exposed. A soothing shower would, she hoped, go a long way toward reinvigorating her fatigued body and quieting her tired spirit. So she smiled and nodded, and waited until Brenda had gone, closing the door behind herself, to disrobe and step under the wonderfully hot spray.

When Sharon emerged from the shower with one towel wrapped around her body and another secured turban-style around her wet hair, she found a short black silk robe stretched out on Brenda's bed, and stretched out beside it, Brenda herself, fast asleep.

Silently contemplating the other woman, Sharon toweled the excess water from her hair, her stomach tightening with a combination of arousal and trepidation_. It's like riding a bike, Sharon_, she reminded herself, releasing a deep breath through her nose. This was the part that had been easy, even inevitable, between the two of them from the beginning, but now, with so much emotion out in the open and even more waiting in the wings, the prospect of sex was suddenly intimidating.

Not just sex; intimacy. There were no shields left for them to conceal themselves behind, only vulnerability as naked as the brunette's body was beneath the damp towel. Just loitering here in the shadowed bedroom, listening to her own breath amid the stillness, felt incredibly intimate.

With a brusque nod to herself, Sharon moved the robe out of the way and knelt on the bed beside the blonde. "Brenda," she murmured very low, and the other woman roused, moving instinctively toward the sound and the warmth of Sharon's body.

Her eyes opened when her fingers encountered the material of the towel. "Good shower?" she asked, her voice rough.

Sharon nodded and pursed her lips. "Good nap?" she teased.

Brenda hummed on a sigh, tracing the edge of the towel where it rested against Sharon's thigh. Goosebumps instantly prickled over the older woman's skin, and Sharon knew Brenda felt the reaction. Sharon's heart throbbed hard in her chest, and she swallowed down an instinctive flinch, schooling herself not to behave like a skittish horse. She wanted this. She wanted Brenda. She forced her body to relax, extending her legs and curling up on her side, cheek propped on her hand, so the two of them faced each other. Brenda's hand came to rest on her waist, finding bare skin beneath the flimsy barrier of the towel.

Dark brown eyes met murky green, and in an instant Sharon stopped worrying about not knowing what to say, because they didn't need to say anything. They'd said enough for now; the rest could wait. Brenda seemed to read her thoughts, and the younger woman's generous lips curved up into a smile.

The kiss was a soft, leisurely one that they moved into together, as naturally as an extension of breathing or swallowing, with no remnant of the furtive urgency that had always pervaded such encounters in the past. Sharon breathed out softly into Brenda's mouth, finally feeling like she might be able to let that guilt and tension go, as gently and fluidly as the receding of the tide.

The kiss didn't end, instead merging into others, incorporating the scraping of Sharon's teeth over Brenda's lower lip, and the play of Brenda's fingertips over Sharon's ribcage. Instead of distinct sensations or discrete moments, the memory Sharon would have later was of a mood, an atmosphere of aching tenderness of which she hadn't realized either of them was capable. That tenderness bathed the soft rasp of their legs tangling together, the heat of Brenda's avid mouth on the tender skin of Sharon's breast, the slow, steady movement of the brunette's longer fingers against the swollen flesh between Brenda's legs and the less measured response of Brenda's fingertips dancing over Sharon's clit and then pressing hard.

Sharon's orgasm wasn't like shattering or exploding, not a harsh, jagged burst, but was instead like that tide, swelling and lapping until it finally reached a high-water mark and she felt as if her body dissolved before being knit back together.

They were quiet for a long time after their bodies had grown still, shrouded in a kind of awed hush as if they were in church, their bodies brushing beneath Brenda's crisp sheets. Sharon had slipped her arms through the sleeves of the robe but had left it unbelted, and the cool, silky fabric contrasted with the heat of Brenda Leigh's skin. It was still only mid-afternoon, but the drawn curtains and cool tone of the walls made it seem later, as if they were enveloped in a never-ending twilight. It was disconcerting, but not unpleasant.

The captain realized she'd been staring at the wall for a long time before she finally really _saw_ it. "I had no idea you were such a fan of purple."

Brenda didn't answer right away, as if she had to remind herself how to speak. "You know, neither did I." Brenda cuddled closer to Sharon, a little bit for warmth but mostly just because she could, and looked around her colorful bedroom, her gaze sliding over lilac and lavender and aubergine – the walls, the curtains, the rich comforter on the bed. "It reminds me of you. It's your favorite color." Sharon twisted to look inquisitively into Brenda's face and the deputy chief elaborated, "You wear it a lot. I guess even when I thought you weren't gonna be here, I wanted this room to remind me of you." The blonde pulled a face. "That's pathetic, isn't it?"

"Not pathetic." The older woman shifted marginally, her hips readjusting themselves beneath the sheet. "Perhaps a little… intimidating."

Brenda wasn't sure what to say to that, so she went with, "I just want you to know that I'm serious about us." She instantly felt foolish – painting her bedroom in a show of affection, like a heartsick teenager? She should have written a love letter. She'd never written a love letter before, not properly, but Sharon would appreciate that sort of thing, wouldn't she? Or – Brenda Leigh mentally face-palmed as she thought of the perfect gesture – she could have had a spare key ready and waiting for Sharon to put on her key chain.

Sharon's lips quirked into a mild version of her usual smirk, but she didn't poke fun, and her voice was soft when she spoke. "Okay, Brenda. Okay. I know."

"Do you?" Brenda demanded with her characteristic earnest eagerness. "I should've been more understandin' about how it felt to you, like I was just jumpin' into your bed –"

"I think," Sharon interrupted gravely, her eyes meeting Brenda's and then dropping away, "if that was all either of us wanted, there were certainly easier options available."

The younger woman remembered the words Sharon had said the night before on the phone, how she'd essentially admitted to being as afraid that Brenda wanted a real relationship as she was that the blonde wanted nothing more than a way out of a stagnant marriage. Brenda realized Sharon wasn't yet ready to say as much face-to-face without the lubrication of the finest booze the Hartsfield-Jackson Holiday Inn had to offer. That was all right. Brenda Leigh was confident now that Sharon wanted a lot more from her than sex. The cautious captain certainly wasn't the type to chase someone across the country for a shag.

"You don't want to have this conversation," she surmised now, and Sharon shrugged.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Brenda continued.

"I did my part."

"Sharon," she burst out, "I lo—"

"Shh." Cool fingertips pressed firmly to Brenda's lips. "Let's not make any promises. Let's just be." The touch softened into a caress, removing much of the initial sting of the words.

For once the blonde forced herself to stop and think before reacting. A few seconds ticked by, and she propped herself on one elbow, carefully scrutinizing the other woman's countenance. It was somber but open, and that gave the deputy chief a fragile, buoyant sensation of hope.

"Together," Brenda clarified, relaxing. "Let's just be together."

Sharon's serious expression mellowed as she realized that Brenda wasn't going to press forward with her peculiar brand of heart-to-heart interrogation. "Together," she affirmed, and her gentle smile transformed her face as Brenda watched. "You –" Sharon twisted, her lips ghosting over the hollow of Brenda's pale, vulnerable throat – "are incredibly beautiful."

Brenda felt herself flush as her lips curved into a smile. "Thank you," she whispered, lifting the heavy fall of Sharon's damp hair, curling as it began to dry, away from the nape of her neck and drawing it over one shoulder. Her dark eyes followed the cascading waves down the curve of Sharon's breast until her flesh was swallowed up by the black fabric of the loose robe. _Stay with me_, she thought feverishly, longing to peel even that thin barrier away from the older woman's skin. _Don't ever leave me again._

Aloud she asked, "Are you gonna spend the night?"

Sharon propped herself on one bent elbow, creating a little distance between them. "That depends," she replied cautiously.

Brenda's forehead scrunched. "On what?"

_Whether you want me here in the morning_, those green eyes said as clearly as if the other woman had spoken. "On whether or not you hog the covers."

The deputy chief smiled. "I'll share," she promised.

She knew she and Sharon weren't ready to make any grander promises or sweeping declarations to one another yet, despite what she had begun so eagerly to confide only minutes before. Even if Brenda's first impulse was to say the words, she knew that Sharon was right. They needed time to build up the little things that made the big things, the everyday, the simple being together, before anyone mentioned the maybe-always-forever. If they were really lucky, they would wake up one morning to find that their lives had blended together until the words weren't even necessary any more, just a nice reminder of what they both knew.

Beside her Sharon stretched, arching luxuriantly like a cat. "Tired," she admitted in a throaty murmur.

"Yeah, you've had a long day." Brenda hesitated only fractionally before confessing, "I'm tired too. I didn't really sleep last night."

"No," Sharon agreed softly, curling against the smaller woman's side and securely wrapping one arm around her waist. Brenda grinned into the low light of her bedroom.

Sharon's eyes were closed, but apparently she had a sixth sense for more than detecting improperly completed crime scene logs. "What?" she demanded sharply.

"Just you." Brenda turned to see one skeptical eye cracked open. "You're a cuddler."

Sharon held her breath, posed to stiffen and flinch away, and the blonde reassured, "'s nice. You feel so nice."

"_Nice_," the captain repeated derisively, but she wriggled closer as Brenda Leigh rolled onto her side, again drawing Sharon's arm around her waist.

"Really nice," Brenda insisted stubbornly, and she didn't have to look to know that now the other woman was grinning.

No, Brenda reflected hazily as she closed her eyes and began to drift, it wasn't I-love-you-forever. But, with Sharon's silk-covered breasts pressed against her spine and the heat of one long leg stretched out beside her own, even the impatient deputy chief had to concede that it was a good start.

3.

"I woke up and you weren't there." Brenda's accusatory tone rang out in the kitchen and Sharon turned to meet wounded, bleary eyes. The captain had one of last night's wine glasses in one hand, and a dish towel in the other.

"No, because I'm right here," the older woman pointed out, swallowing her exasperation because it was accompanied by a rush of bemused affection and the knowledge that she, too, had amends to make. The events of the last several weeks couldn't be erased by one conversation and a night together, not for either of them.

Suspicion underlined each of Brenda Leigh's words. "You're dressed."

"I'm going to get us breakfast, because you don't have any food," the brunette continued in the same tone, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled slightly. "If you want to get ready, we can go out instead."

Brenda hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she shook her head. Why leave her cozy apartment for food and coffee when she had a ready volunteer to bring those very items to her? She might even be able to lure Sharon back into bed when she returned. They could lounge and read the newspaper. Brenda had never actually read the newspaper in bed, but it sounded like something she might like to do with Sharon. She allowed herself to picture long, loose dark hair and intense green eyes, Sharon in her reading glasses and nothing else.

Besides, she needed to shower before she could go out in public (at least anywhere other than Hollywood Boulevard), and she wasn't ready to wash the scent and feel of Sharon from her skin.

Sharon read her response in her face and crossed the kitchen, taking both of Brenda Leigh's hands in hers and making pointed eye contact before dipping her head a fraction to kiss her waiting lips. "All right, then. I'll be back soon. I'll wake you up."

Brenda pouted. "I'll be awake," she protested.

Sharon was already headed into the living room, but Brenda could hear the smile in her voice as she repeated, "I'll wake you."

And she did, with hot, sweet coffee and the tempting aroma of a fresh cinnamon-raisin bagel. The captain set the coffee on the night stand and backed away from Brenda's grabby hands, asking, "Are those for me or the bagel?"

The blonde grinned. "Both, I s'pose."

"Well, come into the kitchen, then."

Brenda frowned. "Whatever happened to breakfast in bed?"

"You'll get crumbs in the bed," Sharon replied definitely, spinning on her heel.

Brenda felt her mouth draw into a little pout as she watched the other woman's receding back. "But it's _my_ bed," she pointed out to the empty room, but found herself following anyway, as Sharon must have known she would.

That tone of voice, Brenda reflected rather sleepily as she flopped down at the table, was one part Captain Raydor, one part parental, one part mischievous lover, and the glint in those green eyes was something new altogether.

It was hard to remember the days when she'd thought of Sharon as a one-dimensional caricature of draconian authority. There were so_ many_ incarnations of this woman; Brenda wondered if she would ever know them all. She doubted it. Sharon Raydor might be calm and stable, but she was anything other than static, constantly evolving just below the surface. Brenda gazed at her now, feeling like a voyeur witnessing some private ritual, as her green-eyed captain, her Wicked Witch, hunkered down at Brenda's dining table, spreading a thin layer of cream cheese on her whole wheat bagel. Her gaze was studious behind her glasses, focused on the task at hand as if it were the most important thing in the world, pausing only to brush back a strand of wavy, untamed hair. Sharon brought that focus and clarity to whatever the task at hand was, and Brenda was still learning how intoxicating it could be to have all that concentration centered on _her_.

Maybe this was Brenda's favorite Sharon, this one sitting in her kitchen, silently eating her breakfast. This one in tight, faded jeans, a paper-thin white cotton blouse – a wrinkled blouse, at that – and with, of all things, ratty red Converse sneakers on her sockless feet.

Brenda frowned. Above all else, she was, and would always be, a detective. "That's what you packed for Atlanta?"

Sharon slowly chewed and swallowed before she answered, but she couldn't hide the way her irises had flared at the deputy chief's question_. Uh-huh_, Brenda thought. _Caught_. – But caught at what?

"Well, um, no. No, not exactly." Sharon sipped her coffee, pondered, and finally met the younger woman's gaze with a sheepish smile. "I packed for Palm Springs. I thought I'd get away for a few days. There's a place up there, in the desert, where David and I went once – I've always thought I'd like to go back by myself."

Blonde curls slid over Brenda's shoulder as she cocked her head. "So what happened?" she asked, the way she was accustomed to asking questions to which she already knew the answers, but genuinely curious.

Sharon winced. "I don't know," she admitted ruefully, half laughing at herself. "I drove to the airport."

Brenda's eyes widened. "You just – you just drove to the airport and bought a ticket and got on a plane?" she demanded incredulously.

The brunette nodded tentatively.

"Oh, my goodness," Brenda breathed. "_Sharon_." She'd known Sharon's decision to follow her must have been sudden, but this took it to a whole new level. And this was Sharon Raydor – careful, cautious, responsible, always-plan-for-every-contingency Sharon. Tears pricked at the back of her eyelids. So much for her own grand, spontaneous gesture. Coming from Sharon, this was dizzyingly, terrifyingly close to going down on one knee and declaring eternal devotion.

She was pretty sure neither of them was ready for that. "That must've cost a fortune."

"Yes," the other woman agreed, too frank to bother being disingenuous.

Brenda Leigh swallowed. "Was it worth it?"

Sharon grinned. "That remains to be seen."

Brenda shook her head, and then grinned back, her eyes alight with promise. "Well," she drawled, adding a couple of extra syllables to the simple word, "I'll just have to come up with a few things that will make this a very worthwhile use of your time _and_ your frequent flyer miles."

4.

When Brenda awoke the following morning, she found herself alone again. As soon as the encounter of her spread palm with nothing but cool, rumpled sheet confirmed this fact, her features scrunched together in dismay, and though she was still only half awake, she flung herself out of bed and stalked into the hallway, intent on finding a certain captain and informing her just how violently she disapproved of this developing pattern of behavior. If she'd wanted someone who would just get out of bed and leave her alone post-sex, la di da, she could have kept her heterosexuality card.

Before she could unleash her sleepy wrath, however, she found herself colliding with an armful of beaming, energetic Sharon, clad only in a pair of panties and her grey tank top but with her reading glasses perched rather intellectually upon her patrician nose, iPhone gripped firmly in her right hand. "Good morning!" Sharon enthused, kissing the blonde's cheekbone with aplomb, and Brenda only blinked. The glasses and stubborn jut of the brunette's chin were disconcertingly professional, given her dishabille.

"I'm glad you're up," Sharon continued, cupping Brenda's elbow and leading her back toward the bedroom. "I was going to leave a note. I've got to go home and get dressed. I'm having a breakfast meeting with Chief Pope."

Brenda again blinked foggily. "Is that a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing."

The blonde rubbed one bare foot over the top of the other as she watched Sharon extract a pair of neatly rolled pants from her small suitcase. "Will can be kinda unpredictable," she cautioned, aware that her advice was unlikely to be welcome.

In response Sharon only smirked as she shimmied the pants over her hips. "Honey, I've been dealing with Will Pope for almost as long as you have," the older woman pointed out. "And without the more – personal – dimensions of the relationship the two of you share. I've seen all the rabbits he can pull out of his little hat."

Brenda bit her lip, studying the straight line of Sharon's back. "Is your suspension over?"

"It will be." The captain cocked her head and smirked over her shoulder. "I'll call you as soon as it's over, Brenda, and I'll tell you everything, I promise."

The deputy chief cast her a last dubious look, but Sharon decided not to notice it. For all Brenda's skill at negotiating with hardened criminals, Captain Raydor knew she surpassed the younger woman at wheeling and dealing with those on the right side of the law; that was a large part of the reason why she'd made it as far as she had. The head of FID was never going to be voted homecoming queen (or king) of the LAPD. To keep yourself from being torn to shreds by the jackals on both sides of the thin blue line, you had to be a political animal, and Sharon was.

Her confidence didn't waver even when she walked into Will Pope's spacious office and found herself facing not only the chief but Commander Russell Taylor over a pot of black coffee and a tray of semi-stale breakfast pastries.

"Ah," Pope said, offering her that slightly nervous, overly affable smile of his, "good morning, Sharon. Thank you for cutting into your vacation time to join us."

Vacation, suspension – she hadn't come to argue over semantics. She smiled calmly, making eye contact with both of the room's occupants as she returned, "Good morning, gentlemen," and sat down right between them at the table, like Scarlett O'Hara at the ball, neatly demolishing whatever advantage Taylor had hoped to gain by arriving early. "You wanted to see me, chief?"

An hour and a half later, Sharon prepared to address another chief, this one of the deputy variety. She hadn't even raised her hand to knock when Brenda flung the apartment door open and yanked her inside, demanding, "What happened?"

Sharon blinked and brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the skirt of her pin-striped Armani suit. "Chief Pope agreed with all of the recommendations for the reorganization of Internal Affairs and its subsections, including FID, that Commander Taylor included in his findings."

Brenda anxiously bit her lip, obliterating the effects of the effort she was making to appear confident and unruffled. "Reorganization," she echoed dully. "What does that mean? What are these so-called 'recommendations,' Sharon?

"Unsurprisingly, the document is a long one. However, the most salient point is the need for greater centralization of Internal Affairs, under the supervision of a senior, high-ranking officer," Sharon explained in that same dry, businesslike tone that Brenda had heard on countless occasions.

Brenda squirmed, finding Sharon's tranquility now even more maddening than it was at a crime scene. "How senior? More senior than a captain? Like a commander, for instance?"

Sharon's lips curved into a frighteningly humorless smile. "Exactly like a commander."

Unable to refrain any longer, Brenda stomped one bare foot, causing dull pain to radiate up her leg. "I am going to _kill_ Will Pope!" she exclaimed. "Right after I murder Commander Taylor! That slimy, squirmin', low-down snake of a –" She broke off abruptly as she took in the other woman's unaltered expression. "Sharon, what on earth is the matter with you? You _love_ your job. Why aren't you upset?"

"Yes, I believe Commander Taylor must have harbored similar questions when Chief Pope whole-heartedly endorsed his recommendations and congratulated him on having gone so far beyond his remit in the investigation of a simple OIS." Sharon finally allowed herself a deadly, feline smirk. "Chief Pope agrees that the rank of commander would befit the head of IA. So he's scheduled the ceremony for Monday morning at 9 a.m."

Brenda's brow furrowed. "Ceremony?"

The smirk dissolved into a grin. "I'm getting a commendation for distinguished service, apparently," the brunette confided. "Right after I'm promoted, of course."

Brenda gaped. "Sharon Raydor, you – you – _impossible_ woman!" she exclaimed, seizing the brunette in a fierce hug as she simultaneously swatted at her. "I can't believe you had me thinkin' Will was forcin' you to retire! Did you know? How did you know?"

Sharon's eyes sparkled as she returned the hug. "I was fairly certain. Believe it or not, Brenda, some of my people actually _like_ me. And they tell me things."

"Of course they like you," Brenda scoffed, as if she'd never doubted it for a second. She held herself away from Sharon to survey her, as if the impending change in rank might have altered the brunette's appearance, and then pulled her close again, adding a little shimmy. "Well. _Well_," she repeated, a delighted smile spreading over her features. "Commander Taylor just shot himself right in the foot, didn't he?"

Sharon allowed herself another smirk as she nodded in agreement, but refrained from pointing out that Taylor's figurative self-mutilation wasn't the only shooting that had been going on lately. Between playing catch-up with all the investigations she'd missed and navigating the deeps and shallows of her altered and expanded job description, Commander Raydor was guaranteed to have a full plate; but she was determined to stick as closely as possible to Brenda and her Major Crimes minions. Brenda seemed to accept Taylor's unbelievably dilatory investigation of Raydor's conduct as nothing more than a failed self-aggrandizing tactic, but Sharon remained unconvinced. All those coincidences and oddities that had plagued her sleeping and waking moments for so many weeks only loomed larger as Sharon contemplated her return to work, but there was some consolation to be found in the idea that at least she'd be around to protect Brenda on the clock as well as off.

"We need to celebrate!" Brenda declared, finally stepping back. "Let me get changed, and then I'm takin' you to lunch somewhere fancy where we can drink too much champagne and be ladies who lunch. I know you'll know some place. And you're gonna tell me all about exactly how it happened, and what Will said, and the shade of green Commander Taylor's face turned."

"It was more of a gray," Sharon mused, trailing Brenda into her bedroom.

"Why, for all intents and purposes, you outrank him now," Brenda crowed, as pleased as if she herself had just had another star added to her collar. "Bein' the head of Internal Affairs sounds a lot more important than bein' the _media liaison_." Brenda cheerfully grabbed a pale blue skirt, seemingly at random, and looked back at the older woman. "Just as long as you don't have any plans of out-rankin' _me_."

Sharon shrugged. "Not officially," she conceded, insouciant. "Only in the ways that matter." She blithely side-stepped the shoe Brenda haphazardly chucked in her direction – fittingly, it was a flip-flop – and said, "I'll be waiting in the living room, Brenda, but don't be too long. Someone promised the commander champagne."

The phone began to ring, and Brenda froze mid-shimmy with her skirt halfway up her thighs. "No," she said aloud. "No, no, _no_. Not now!" She headed into the living room, trying to remember where she'd left her phone, and mentally acknowledging that while Sharon would certainly understand the call of duty, the timing was truly awful. Brenda was no stranger to the exceedingly bad timing of the homicidally inclined, but of all the emergency call-outs she'd received, this one was undeniably –

This one was undeniably not for her, she realized, stopping short as she confronted Sharon, who stood in front of the sofa with her phone clasped to her ear.

"Of course, sergeant," she was saying in that tone of quick, reassuring competence. "You did exactly the right thing to call me. I'm officially back Monday, but I'll be there in half an hour. Do _not_ let them move the body _or_ the vehicles."

Sharon hung up, pocketed her phone, and straightened her spine, not even bothering to hide her enthusiasm as she turned to the deputy chief. "I'm sorry, Brenda. I have to go. This sounds like it's going to be a bad one. Poor Elliott's on the verge of an ulcer already."

Brenda shook her head, smiling slightly as she took in the transformation – the sudden reappearance of Captain Raydor, live and in person. "You're not a bit sorry," she corrected, "and I don't mind. This is what we do, so you go ahead and do it, and I'll be here when you're finished."

Sharon didn't approach Brenda, didn't kiss or hug her, but instead studied her thoughtfully for a moment, her head cocked. Then she nodded. "I know," she said, a smile ghosting over her mouth, and Brenda thought it sounded an awful lot like a promise for the future. "I know you will be."

With that, she readjusted the strap of her purse over one squared shoulder, and in another minute Captain Raydor had vanished from view, but this time Brenda Leigh wasn't worried. She knew she would see Sharon soon.

5.

Sharon looked up from her computer screen at the sound of the two-fingered rap on her open office door and found Brenda gazing in at her with that oddly shy smile of hers.

"Hey."

The dark-haired woman felt her own countenance warm immediately, a small smile curving her lips as she rested her elbows on the edge of the desk and instinctively reached up to remove her glasses. "Hey yourself, Deputy Chief Johnson."

The smaller woman's nose crinkled. "Oh, don't. I hoped you'd still be here. Mind if I come in?"

Sharon gestured toward the vacant chair opposite her desk, and Brenda paused only to close the door between the commander's private office and the dim, vacant outer quarters of FID before advancing. She didn't take the chair, though, instead sauntering around to prop her hip against the top drawer. She looked around, surveying he small office with satisfaction. "This is where you belong," she declared.

Sharon chuckled. "Gee, thank you, Brenda. Fit for a queen, isn't it?"

Brenda rolled her eyes and reached out, lightly running her fingers over the back of Sharon's thin, finely veined hand before linking their digits. "You know that's not what I meant. I'm just glad you're back."

Green eyes flashed as the familiar smirk twisted Sharon's lips, and the blonde fought the urge to lean down and taste it. "Are you?" Sharon returned coolly. "Try to remember that next week."

The chief frowned slightly. "What happens next week?"

Those intense eyes narrowed. "I start shadowing your team again, to prepare a report for Gavin and Chief Pope."

She watched Brenda's mouth and throat work her eyes widen, as she fought the instinctive urge to protest loudly. "Oh," the younger woman finally managed, looking deflated.

Sharon looked back at her computer screen. "You got a lot of catchin' up to do?" Brenda asked wistfully, and Sharon's gaze darted back to her face. She saw her lover there, not an adversary, watching and waiting, felt her lover squeeze her hand, and the newly-minted commander's rigid shoulders relaxed as she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Yes," she replied. "Tim – Sergeant Elliott – did everything he could, but –" She indicated the in-box on the corner of her desk, which was practically creaking under the weight of all the reports resting upon it.

Brenda Leigh's rosy mouth formed a petulant little moue. "Then I don't suppose you have time to let me take you out to dinner. I still owe you that celebration."

Sharon shook her head regretfully, lifting their joined hands and running her thumb over the perfect, clear half-moons of Brenda's nails. "Maybe this weekend."

"This _weekend_?" the deputy chief cried in dismay.

"Yes – Friday, Saturday, Sunday. The weekend. It comes after the work week," Sharon teased gently, still toying with the other woman's fingers. Their eyes met and held.

"But I miss you."

The older woman opened her mouth to retort that they'd seen each other Saturday and were together now, but she couldn't. "I know," she murmured, and because she couldn't return the words she lightly squeezed Brenda's hand. The blonde understood her unspoken language and smiled, placated.

"By this time two weeks from now you'll be sick of me and complaining to Pope to get me the hell away from Major Crimes," the commander cautioned.

Breda Leigh shrugged nonchalantly. "That may be. Captain Raydor could be a pain in the ass, so I assume Commander Raydor can too." She grinned, and Sharon felt herself grin back in response. That sweet drawl dropped an octave. "But I want my Sharon."

Sharon cocked her head to study dark eyes and a cloud of smooth golden curls. "Good thing she's right here," she replied huskily. She planted her heels firmly, rolling her chair back from the desk, and tugged at the younger woman's hand. Green eyes darkened with promise. "Come here, Brenda Leigh."

The blonde's cheeks flushed with pleasure and she leaned down, gripping the arm of Sharon's chair with her free hand. She breathed her in, coffee and shampoo and the familiar warmth of her captain's - no, her commander's skin. Her lips grazed Sharon's high cheekbone before finding her mouth, brushing once, twice, three times.

"This is highly unprofessional conduct, chief," Sharon murmured.

"Highly," Brenda agreed. Her knees spread beneath her flowing navy skirt and she crawled onto Sharon's waiting lap, their open mouths melding together. The chief eagerly dove into the sweetness and heat that always blossomed between them, her palms rising to frame Sharon's face and grazing her thumbs over her cheekbones. The other woman's hand snaked up Brenda's back, tracing the bumps of her vertebrae before curving around her neck and urging her closer, her coffee-flavored tongue licking into the blonde's mouth.

Sharon knew she was addicted to the heat and sharpness and piercing sweetness of Brenda Leigh Johnson, and she had no desire to be rehabilitated. One of Brenda's hands trailed down her neck, easily slipping the top button of her blouse free from its hole, and then slipped inside to cup Sharon's full breast through the fine lace of her bra. The older woman did nothing to stop her. They certainly couldn't make a habit of this at work, but they both wanted it, perhaps needed it, as a promise that their relationship wouldn't be affected by Raydor's return to work. Brenda's thumb found her nipple, dragging over it with agonizing slowness, and Sharon kissed her harder, sucking the younger woman's tongue into her mouth.

After several minutes Brenda pulled away and eased back, finding the floor with one foot and standing. She looked down, deep chocolate eyes surveying the incredibly lovely woman with her flushed cheeks and glistening lips, the crisp cotton of her perfectly tailored blouse crumpled and hanging open to reveal the curve of one perfect breast. "Come back – I can't reach you," Sharon fretted impatiently, reaching out, and Brenda glowed with affection.

"No, but I can reach you. Sit back," she cooed, fluidly sinking to her knees between the desk and her commander's chair. After a few seconds Sharon relented and complied, leaning back, her headed gaze riveted on the other woman. Brenda bowed her head and kissed Sharon's knee beneath the hem of her gray wool pencil skirt, tasting her skin through the sheer fabric of her panty hose, and then lightly trailed both hands down Sharon's calf until she reached her foot. "Even if we can't go out," the deputy chief said, looking up with a mischievous grin as she eased Sharon's foot from her lethal black pump, "we can still celebrate."

Sharon smiled back, her eyes growing hooded as Brenda Leigh stroked her instep. The deputy chief then repeated the whole process on Sharon's left leg and whispered, "Now lift up."

The commander complied, more docile than she had ever been with Brenda Leigh (especially when she wasn't stoned), her eyes blazing with fire. As the blonde reached under the gray skirt to skim Sharon's pantyhose over her hips, the smaller woman realized there was no second barrier between her fingertips and her lover's hot, smooth skin. "Why, commander!" she exclaimed, her eyebrows arching in pleased surprise. "I do believe you're naked under that skirt."

Sharon smirked. "Panties create a line," she replied primly.

"Good Lord, Sharon. Now I won't be able to think of anything else whenever you wear one of those skirts."

Sharon's eyes twinkled as if the thought pleased their owner, and then they snapped shut as Brenda sucked a toe into her mouth.

"You like that?" Brenda's teeth scraped over Sharon's sensitive in-step and her toes, with their nails polished a pale pink, curled in pleasure. The blonde's mouth continued upward, sucking hard at the tendon at the back of Sharon's ankle, kissing and nipping and licking until her cool, collected commander was squirming in her chair. Sharon finally reached down and yanked her own skirt up to the tops of her thighs, and Brenda's eyes shone with triumph. She hooked her hands behind Sharon's knees, dragging the other woman forward until her ass was at the very edge of the cushy leather chair.

"That's it, relax," Brenda crooned to her lover, carefully tracing Sharon's slick, swollen sex with just the tip of her finger. "Let me take care of you."

Sharon breathed out harshly through her nose, not looking terribly relaxed, and Brenda chuckled. Her finger slipped down, gathering more of Sharon's thick moisture, and then penetrated with aching slowness, causing Sharon to bite her lip and buck her hips. "_Brenda_," she whined.

"You'll fall off the chair," Brenda cautioned, withdrawing her finger, and Sharon opened her eyes and glared.

"We have plenty of time," Brenda promised, nudging the older woman's knees further apart, positioning Sharon as she wanted her. The blonde leaned in again, breathing deeply, and felt Sharon shudder before she let her tongue make contact with the tip of her clit. She began to lick very slowly and steadily, keeping the pressure feather-light, just the way she knew could be relied upon to drive Sharon crazy. The older woman's hips twitched, her foot rubbing along the outside of Brenda's thigh, and then Brenda felt her school herself to relax and enjoy, neither hurrying nor helping her along. Smiling, Brenda dipped her tongue shallowly into her lover's opening before licking all the way back up and flicking hard at the distended nub. Sharon swallowed a moan.

Brenda Leigh felt her own clit twitch, making her acutely aware of the wetness soaking through her underwear, and she eased her hand beneath dual layers of fabric, hissing at the first touch of her own quickly-moving fingers. She looked up to find heavy-lidded green eyes trained on her. "Getting ahead of me?" teased a low, throaty voice.

"Don't you worry," Brenda returned, again pressing her mouth to Sharon's hot, wet flesh, this time sucking firmly.

"Brenda, _Bren-da_," Sharon hissed, her hands diving between her own legs and spreading herself wide for the assault of the other woman's insistent tongue. She was close, but she held still, letting Brenda do the work. Brenda loved this, loved that Sharon trusted her with her body and her pleasure. Brenda Leigh kept doing exactly what she was doing, keeping the other woman hovering in that place, knowing how wonderful those moments of anticipation felt when you were confident that your partner wasn't going to tease or stop, but was going to make you come. At the same time she rubbed hard, mindlessly, between her own legs, desperate to come with Sharon.

The dark-haired woman finally began to move unable to remain completely still, and Brenda grabbed her hip lest she work her way off the slick leather and onto the floor, which wasn't how either of them wanted this interlude to end. "There there there," Sharon gasped, "that's perfect"; and Brenda relished the sensation of the other woman rocking into her mouth in an increasingly jerky rhythm. Sharon gasped again before going rigid, and Brenda ground mercilessly against her own fingers until warmth exploded and flooded through her body.

When Brenda Leigh could hear again over the thundering of her own heart, the room was filled with the synchronized sounds of their labored breathing, and her cheek rested against the gentle curve of Sharon's pale, lean thigh. She felt fingers lazily shifting through the curls at the crown of her head.

"C'mere, Brenda Leigh," Sharon's smooth, liquid voice requested imperatively, and when the young woman lifted her head, Sharon wriggled her skit back down and sat up properly in her chair. She smiled softly as Brenda stood, wincing when her knees popped, and then arranged herself in the commander's lap. Sharon's arms wrapped snugly around her waist.

"Sharon," Brenda said pensively after several minutes.

"Hmm?" the other woman murmured, smoothing her hand down Brenda's arm to stroke the back of her hand.

"I really am glad you're back."

Sharon smirked wryly. "Yeah, I got that." She angled her chin up and Brenda obligingly dipped down to receive a soft, thorough kiss. Sharon licked Brenda's lips, tasting herself, and Brenda shivered. "I'm glad I'm back too."

"My team – somethin's wrong," the deputy chief continued softly, and Sharon squeezed her hand. "I don't trust anybody but you. They're supposed to be my allies, my friends. And I thought _you_ were my enemy."

"I've never been your enemy, Breda Leigh. I just do my job."

"I know that now." She tucked a lock of chestnut hair behind Sharon's ear. "And you do much more than just your job."

Sharon was silent for several minutes. "You know, at least this way I won't have to go home with ruined underwear."

Brenda snorted at her attempt to lighten the mood. "Come home with me," she suggested guilelessly. "You can bring all your files and work, and we'll order in – we can get that crispy chicken you like. And I'm a lot closer to work than you are, so you can even come in early and get a head start in the mornin'."

"That sounds ideal." Sharon pressed a quick kiss to Brenda's cheek. "But I can't. You distract me."

The blonde pouted, but spoiled the effect by being unable to hold back a grin. She was extremely pleased that Captain Sharon Raydor had found her distracting. She could only hope Commander Raydor would continue to feel the same.

"This reminds me of that first night when I came to see if you'd like to go out for a drink. Imagine if I'd just gone home, or you'd said no."

Sharon smiled too before turning serious. "Imagine," she echoed on a sigh. "Jesus. It was such a short time ago, Brenda."

Brenda Leigh shifted. The last thing she wanted was for Sharon to spend the remainder of the evening slogging through paperwork and fretting over the soap-opera appropriate beginning of their relationship. It wasn't the past that mattered, but the future. "Hey, now," she scolded, "don't go getting' all serious on me."

After a couple of beats of silence the other woman returned, "My ass is seriously falling asleep."

"Are you calling me fat?" Brenda squawked, but she stood up and the commander stood too, cringing and stretching.

"You know it's going to be different now," Sharon murmured quietly and carefully, looking down at her desk. "With me back at work. We'll disagree, we'll fight –"

Brenda nodded. "I'm not afraid to fight with you, Sharon."

"No."

"We've always fought, but now we can make up."

Sharon smirked, her gaze far-away. "This is true."

"You still look worried." Brenda looped her arms around the taller woman's waist.

The captain shrugged. "I'm a detective, Brenda Leigh. I don't like mysteries."

"Really? 'Cause I love a good mystery." The younger woman smiled, doing her best to look reassuring despite her own unease. Her track record with relationships was terrible.

"That's why you joined the police, isn't it? You wanted to play Nancy Drew." Sharon tilted her head, her eyes sharp and shrewd. "Look, Brenda, I don't know what's going to happen between us, but I promise you this: you will always be able to trust me."

Brenda swallowed hard, daunted by the intensity in that deep green gaze. "I don't suppose you wanna be Frank Hardy to my Nancy Drew?"

The commander sniffed, affronted.

"The Cagney to my Lacey," Brenda continued, warming to her subject. "The Scully to my Mulder. The –"

"Natasha to your Boris?" Sharon cut in snidely. "The Clarice Starling to your Hannibal Lecter?"

"Hey!" the blonde exclaimed, and Sharon smirked again, mirthfully this time.

"I work alone, chief." She turned and slipped her feet into her discarded pumps. "I prefer not to drink alone, however. Are you coming?"

Brenda blinked, startled. "What about your paperwork?"

"It's waited this long, so I suppose a few more hours can't hurt." Sharon grabbed her dainty little purse in one hand and caught Brenda Leigh's fingers with the other. Her eyes glinted as she met the smaller woman's gaze. "I don't know about you, but I find myself in dire need of a double bourbon."

Brenda wrinkled her nose. "For you, Sharon, I'll even drink that nasty stuff if I have to. But do you think you could refrain from shootin' anyone?"

The commander snickered as she drew the deputy chief toward the elevator. "Just this once," she conceded blandly, stone-faced. "Only bourbon, hold the bullets."

6.

A black SUV glided seamlessly up to the curb, its driver watching the two attractive middle-aged women emerge from opposite sides of Sharon Raydor's Crown Vic and walk toward the unassuming dive bar, their hips bumping more often than was strictly necessary. His burning gaze was instinctively riveted to the taller brunette. "I say quit dicking around and let me pop the bitches. What the hell are you waitin' for?"

"I thought you wanted her to suffer," returned the voice of the caller on the other end of the cheap burner phone.

"I want her _dead_. She ruined my career, ruined my life."

"And she will be, but not like this. It's too easy, Donovan. The time's not right."

"The longer we wait, the riskier it is. The cops know I hit Raydor's house. I'm going to South America, _not _back inside. If you fuckin' get me caught -"

"No one's going to get caught," replied the second, much calmer voice. "You agreed to wait, Jason. That's the plan. So _wait_."

Jason Donovan fingered the body of the nine millimeter resting on the seat beside him. The glow of a street light glinted off its barrel. Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson reached for Raydor, affectionately looping her arm around the older woman's waist, and both laughed. Donovan snorted in disgust. He'd always known that F.I.D. cunt was too frigid to be anything other than a dyke.

"You've already waited four years," the smooth, even voice continued in his ear.

"And I'm not waiting much longer," he warned.

"You won't have to."

Donovan watched as Captain - no, it was Commander now - Sharon Raydor impulsively kissed her companion hard on the mouth, and then looked over her shoulder as if checking to see if they were being watched. They were, but her gaze passed smoothly over the SUV. _Stupid bitch._

"It's almost time, Jason. I promise you, very soon we'll both get what we want."

THE END


End file.
